


Dark Skies

by Sophia_Bee



Category: X-Men (Movies), X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Alternate Universe - Future, BAMF Emma, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Environmentalism, M/M, Prostitution, Terrorism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:18:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3166178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sophia_Bee/pseuds/Sophia_Bee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seven year old Charles Xavier remembers the day the mutant terrorist group, House of M, made a coordinated strike on all the oil wells in the world, setting them on fire. He remembers sitting on the carpet of the study at Westchester, watching the video of the woman with the ice blue eyes and the boy who she holds by her side. The day is called Burning Day and it changed the world forever. It's the day the sun went away, followed by the toxic black rain, leaving a world with endless rain and overcast skies where survival becomes the most important thing. </p><p>Now 27, Charles has joined the government police force and is going to his first assignment, a remote station called Paradise with its commander, Sebastian Shaw. When Charles is picked to go undercover to trap a member of House of M suspected to be working at a nearby brothel, he enters into a web of deception that will change the way he sees the world, and especially when he meets the man who was the boy in the video so long ago, Edie Lehnsherr's son, Erik.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dark Skies

**Author's Note:**

> HEED THE WARNING
> 
> So many thanks to **lapetiteyoyo** who hung in there with me on this fic. She says it's good. I'm going with that. 
> 
> As always, thanks for reading.

**I**

“Welcome to Paradise.”

Paradise. Charles holds back a bit of a laugh at the name. It’s a name that was coined long ago, but even though the train has pulled into a rundown station set in the middle of an equally rundown town, this is not Paradise. Paradise itself is still several hours away, deeper into the wilderness. Charles steps off the train and blinks in the endlessly gray light, then reaches down and starts to slip his respirator mask up onto his face when the man standing in front of him puts up his hand and stops him.

“Don’t need those here,” he says, grinning widely, “It’s not the city, with all the stinking air from people burning dung and what wood they can find.”

Charles starts to protest that he’s not technically from the city, then stops himself. It’s not like the air at Westchester is like the air in the city. When Charles goes into the city he feels like his lungs are going to squeeze shut from all the pollution even with his respirator on. Then he sees the children running down the street, maskless for whatever reason Charles can’t guess. Maybe they don’t want to wear the annoying thing over their mouths or maybe their families can’t afford masks, or even share one. Still, Charles always wears his mask when he’s outside, even if it’s Westchester. He doesn’t want his lungs to be destroyed. He fingers his mask, fighting the urge to pull it on despite the man telling him it’s okay not to wear it, then decides to leave it hanging around his neck. Better to show this man respect right away. He’s his new boss after all.

“Commander Shaw,” the man says, putting out his hand. Charles takes it, gripping it firmly, knowing that this handshake is his first impression. The man is older, taller than Charles with a square jaw and his eyes glitter with a peculiar hardness. His handshake is firm, as if it’s a contest to show him who is in control. Charles can tell right away that this isn’t a man to cross. Years in the wilderness have left him hard, and maybe even a little cruel. He doesn’t know how he knows this. Maybe it’s just something he senses, a ghost of his psychic powers that have been actively subdued for the last twenty years of his life.

Sometimes Charles even wonders if the inhibitor chip is working, although it’s not like he has ever known what it’s like to have his full powers. Even before he went to the academy, and they adjusted the setting on his chip to allow some of this telepathy, he’s always had a sense about people. Some people call it empathy, but when you’re a born telepath, you can’t help but wonder if it might be something else. Something leaking through the barriers put in place to make you normal. Not that Charles would ever tell anyone, because he’s heard the rumors. Stories make their way around now and then about people who fail the chip, and he knows the government never closed down the camps. Not all the way. They are still needed. Charles cringes at the idea that anyone needs to be confined from regular society. How much of a monster can these mutations make a person that they can’t be safe around normal people?

He’s been chipped since he was seven. It was three months after the oil wells were burned, sending towering columns of black smoke into the atmosphere, blotting out the sun, and followed by the black rain that fell for months, suffocating everything living until the entire world lost its color, morphing into endless shades of gray. Charles can still remember the day the wells burned, watching television in the study, sitting in a patch of sunshine that illuminated the intricate patterns on the carpet. That was the first time he saw her. The woman on the television with the boy about Charles’ age tucked into her side, both of them staring at the camera with their ice blue eyes.

“You have killed us,” she said, her mouth pinched and tight, “so now we will kill you. All of you.”

Behind her hung banners. End the Camps. End Chipping. Mutant and Proud. And the one that Charles remembers most clearly.

_House of M._

Mutants. Terrorists. Freedom fighters to some, but not him. To him they are the enemy.

In a way Charles wishes he had savored that moment more, had taken the time to enjoy the warmth of the sunshine on his skin, because it would be one of the last times he saw it. The clouds would spread as the wells burned. It wasn’t just one or two oil wells. It was all of them, in a mass coordinated strike that only those with mutant powers could achieve, they had all been set on fire. Soon the sun would be gone, but seven year old Charles didn’t know that. He just knew that as he watched that woman on TV, stared at those eyes, he felt a wave of anger that he did not understand. A feeling that he would later recognize he could not call his own. It was her anger, her revenge, so strong it spilled out all over the world, and it was the first time Charles had ever felt his mutation stir.

Three months later as he lay in his bed unable to block out the voices that refused to stop, not wanting to know everything they told him, he somehow managed to pick out his mothers’ thoughts from the hallway.

_It’s for the best._

“A simple procedure,” the doctor says, his voice even, “very new, but it’s better than the alternative.”

“The alternative?” Sharon asks, her voice trembling.

“The camps.”

“Oh god,” Sharon gasps. “I can’t...I just can’t.”

_He’s only seven. He’s so young. People die there._

“He’s testing omega level, Mrs. Xavier. It’s the chip or the camps. There are no other options.”

The day they chipped him is the day the voices go away. Charles knows he should be happy. He’s now normal. Like everyone else. Except he’s sad. Because he’d just started to be able to pick apart the voices, to keep some away and focus on others, and now he is alone again. It takes a few months before he stops feeling empty.

“Here’s the car.” Shaw says, jerking Charles back to the present. Charles frowns, looking at what appears to be a somewhat dilapidated vehicle parked outside the train station.

“Oh,” Charles says, “I thought….”

He glances down the muddy path that works as a road and his gaze falls on people who are untying horses from their posts, heavy packs on their backs as they prepare to journey from the train station further into the wilderness. He’d thought there would be no cars.

“Police issue,” Shaw says, shrugging, “old solar model from before the Burning Day. We have a crack mechanic who keeps her running strong.”

It’s not that Charles hasn’t seen a car. Sharon has one after all. It’s just that in Westchester and in the city they are things only the rich have. House of M achieved their goal when they burned the wells. The world’s oil supply convulsed and life as everyone knew it ground to a halt. The price of gasoline shot through the roof and suddenly people were offering up all their riches just for a small can here and there. Eventually it ran out, and with it went gas-powered vehicles.

It’s not like this wasn’t an eventuality that anyone had considered. People on the fringes had been warning about running out of oil for at least a hundred years. It was the suddenness combined with the refusal to believe that it would actually ever happen that left the world with only a few options for solar power, not that there was much sun left. There were quite a few solar vehicles left in the city, but in the outlying areas, especially areas like Paradise, Charles had thought pretty much everyone was on horseback now.

“She doesn’t hold a charge long,” Shaw says, pulling open the passenger side door for Charles to duck into. “But she works for getting to and from the train station. Plus she wows the new recruits.”

Charles tries to hide his smile. He’s not your typical recruit, wowed by an ancient solar car. He’s the son of Sharon Xavier, after all, not just some random person who saw police work as a way out. He’s grown up in relative privilege, so a solar car is far from impressive. But even his station in life hasn’t afforded him much. When it came time to pick a job, he found he was limited in his choices. Since the world went gray there weren't a lot of options out there, and the dreams he’d once held of science and maybe even teaching faded away. You can poach wood. Sell dung blocks for burning. Weave clothes. Grow food in covered hydroponic farms. Or you can join the force and spend your time hunting down ghosts.

Charles chose the ghosts.

House of M has never managed the size of strike they did twenty years ago, but they are still operating and strong. In the last quarter they targeted three water filtration plants, and managed to do significant damage to one of them. It wasn’t enough to topple the world into chaos like destroying the oil supply and decimating the environment as a result, but it was damage. They have sworn people will die, and they will keep trying to make life as hard as possible for the human race. They will never stop. Charles can still see the woman’s face, staring at him with those piercing eyes, still feel her conviction.

_You have killed us. Now we will kill you._

The woman is Edie Lehnsherr. It didn’t take long to identify her. The world before Burning Day was one filled with cameras, and with facial recognition everyone knew in just a few hours who she was. No one knew who the boy was though, although it was an easy assumption that he was related to Edie Lehnsherr. They had the same eyes after all. In the twenty years since the oil wells had burned all those systems that had made the world safer, according to their architects, had slowly faded away. They needed electricity to run, and post Burning Day, electricity became scarce. At first there were rolling blackouts, and without warning the world could be plunged into darkness. Charles and Sharon had been on the train in the city once when that happened and had ended up spending three terrifying hours in complete darkness before the power was restored. Charles would never forget how his mother clung to his hand and whispered into his ear, and he would never forget who was to blame.

Edie Lehnsherr. House of M. Terrorist.

Eventually the government figured out how to live with less electricity, but even now every night the power goes off and every night Charles huddles under a thick wool blanket in his room at Westchester trying to ward off the cold and damp, wishing they had just one more dung brick to burn in his fireplace. Often Sharon would curse the size of that damn mansion, how it was always cold, and how it was crumbling in so many places, eaten away by the dampness and the black rain that had left its walls stained gray. It no longer held any of the majesty that it possessed in the days of sunshine and blue skies.

They have no electricity in Paradise.

Charles knows this. He had researched it on the old pre-Burning Day tablet he had somehow managed to keep running. And he’d asked around. There had been poor infrastructure at Paradise before Burning Day, but afterwards any sort of modern technology became impossible. The only way to get there was to take the solar train then ride in. The only reason the train even stopped anywhere close to Paradise was because it had been built before the skies went black and the gray arrived. It was a pet project of an eccentric millionaire who turned out to be more visionary than even he had expected. He was just out to save the world by reducing carbon emissions, building a super-speed train that zoomed up the eastern seaboard. After the sun was blotted out, it became the lifeline of communities, able to make runs up and down the coast as long as it could be charged enough. This made travel erratic, but it was still possible.

Now he is on his way. Heading towards Paradise, his new home.

They bump along a muddy road, and Charles looks out the windows at the landscape. There are trees rising all around him, although they are not the dark green of pine trees he looks at in books.They are gray, like everything else, the black rain changing their DNA so they never would grow green again. Survival of the fittest, Charles thinks to himself, which might be the way Edie Lehnsherr thinks about human mutations. Charles closes his eyes and pushes that thought away. Edie Lehnsherr stole the sun. Edie Lehnsherr is an enemy of the state.

Edie Lehnsherr is dead.

Three months ago they found her in the upper reaches of Alaska, living in the wilderness. The government sent in personnel on horses, armed with some of the few guns left, and even though Edie Lehnsherr was rumored to be a mutant herself, she was unable to deflect the bullets that sped towards her, one of them slicing through her aorta, and she bled to death in minutes.

Charles wondered why. Why did she die that time? It wasn’t like they hadn’t found her a handful of times in the twenty years since House of M burned the wells. Every time they’d had her cornered she’d gotten away, and Charles knew from reading the accounts that he requested from the records repository that there were eyewitness accounts of bullets being deflected but, for some reason, this time the bullets flew straight and true.

Charles admits that he’s not sorry she’s dead.

It’s a long trip to the Paradise Station and Shaw says very little as they continue through the tall, ghost-like trees that cover the hills around them. Charles shivers a little and Shaw notices, then reaches down as he drives, groping around the floor until he comes up with a small bundle and hands it to Charles. It’s warm, and Charles is grateful as he wraps his hands around it.

“We warm rocks and keep them handy,” Shaw says, a bit dismissively, as if he’s annoyed to have to show this new recruit how things work here. Charles nods, and his hands feel less numb. Shaw’s eyes rake up and down the wool coat Charles is wearing, “And we’ll get you a standard issue coat. It’ll be warmer.”

There is no such thing as warmth anymore. The entire world has become different graduations of chilled, and while it’s cold at Westchester, it’s colder here. There would have been a time that these mountains would be covered in snow but not now. It’s the same wet, dampness that crawls into your bones everywhere you go, just worse. The same mud that squelches under your feet. It’s endless sogginess, and sometimes Charles wishes he’d been able to see the world with all its variations before the dark clouds covered the earth and changed everything into the never ending shades of gray. He imagines the hills around them covered in sparkling white snow, the sky azure blue and the sun...oh the sunshine.

He can still remember sunshine.

Actually, most people can still remember sunshine. Only a few recruits in his academy class are young enough that they can only remember the gray. If you find the right group of people sitting around a table at any random pub, gulping down bitter home brewed ale, you’ll get stories of the sun. How the world sparkled with colors. How it hurt your eyes to look at. How it felt to stretch out on the grass, let it tickle your skin, the smell filling your nostrils, and just close your eyes and feel the warmth. Charles can still remember lying on the grass down by the pond on the mansion grounds, staring out at the small forest that lined the edges of the estate. This was before the trees were chopped down, either by Sharon or by poachers, until all that lines the edges of their land now are rows and rows of stumps. He can still remember that patch of sunshine on the carpet the day he watched the oil wells burn.

“So you’re a telepath,” Shaw finally says into the silence. Charles glances over at the other man. His eyes are on the road and his mouth is a thin line, as if he’s not entirely happy to be saddled with this new recruit. Charles pushes his powers out just a little, testing the waters, and he’s met with a mild feeling of disdain from the other man, then the feeling fades to nothing.

When he was seven he’d been able to read thoughts. All the thoughts. Before the world changed, the Xavier mansion had been filled with people, and Charles could hear all of them. Now, with his suppression chip adjusted, he can’t really read anyone’s thoughts, but he can pick up on feelings. He can sense general emotions, and what he’s getting from Sebastian Shaw is that he doesn’t really like Charles. That’s okay. Charles isn’t here to make friends anyway. He’s here to do his time and then he’ll move on, back to the city, to a better position. He has no intention of staying in Paradise and Shaw surely knows this. He’s probably seen his fair share of new recruits who are using Paradise as a stepping stone to bigger and better things. To him Charles Xavier is no different, and in this case he's not wrong.

“I am a telepath,” Charles says, and he’s met with a strong sense of disappointment, strong enough that Charles actually considers asking Shaw to stop. He puts a hand up to his forehead because the projecting is starting to give him a headache. Even though he’s had his powers back for a few months now, he’s still not very good at shielding himself.

“Useful,” Shaw says dismissively. There is an initiative to put a telepath at every station, and Charles is part of that. “Although I would have rather had a metal-kinetic.”

Charles fights back the urge to apologize for who he is. He can’t help that he was born with the ability to pry into the minds of others. He can’t help that the government has decided he’s helpful when it comes to fighting mutant terrorism. He can’t help any of that, and he doesn’t deserve Shaw’s disdain, yet it appears he will be subjected to it. Still, he understands. He can read minds. He can tell if people are telling the truth. Useful, but a metal-kinetic can shape metal, create weapons and is a weapon in himself. Charles’ telepathy is blocked enough that he could never enter a mind with the intent to control it. Not like he could if he wasn’t suppressed. Not that Charles even remotely knows what that would be like.

“Aren’t they rare?” Charles asks, feeling a little relieved that the other man is finally talking to him. Talking distracts him and keeps Shaw from projecting quite as loudly.

“Who?” Shaw asks, and Charles realizes that Shaw is actually no longer having a conversation with him.

“metal-kinetics. Aren’t they rare?” Charles asks again.

“Yes, but the other side has one.”

Charles arches his eyebrows in surprise. At the Academy no one seemed to know much about the other side, outside the dossier on Edie Lehnsherr that everyone must memorize. What powers they have, what weapons they have, seem to be largely unknown. But here the commander of an outlying station is telling him that he knows House of M has a metal-kinetic.

“Really,” Charles says, and then he remembers how the bullets had deflected every time until the last time, and it makes sense. Someone was protecting Edie Lehnsherr and the last time the government found her, that someone wasn’t there.

“The leader’s son,” Shaw says, “Lehnsherr’s son is a metal-kinetic. Don’t they tell you that at the academy?”

Charles tries to hide his surprise. They don’t even tell them that she has a son at the academy. She’s not presented to them as a mother but as a monster, the head of a network determined to destroy life as they know it. But Edie Lehnsherr does have a son, and Charles remembers the boy in the video from long ago and how they had the same eyes.

The solar car starts to slow a little and Shaw turns his attention to the dash, staring at it intently and muttering a little. They go up a hill, the car dragging a little, and then they round a corner and there, in the middle of the tall, gray trees, is the station. Shaw pulls up in front of it just as the car dies, and without a word to Charles, he leaps out, feet sinking into the mud that surrounds them, calling out to someone who peeks around the corner at the sound of his name.

“Darwin!” Shaw calls, “the car’s not holding a charge like she used to.”

Darwin turns out to be a tall African American man with what Charles sees is a sparkle in his eye, unlike the dullness he sees in Shaw’s. He wipes his hands on a rag and shoves it in his back pocket, then he flashes Charles, who is in process of climbing out of the car, a big, friendly smile. At least someone around here is friendly. Darwin goes to the hood of the car and pops it open, muttering something about having to adjust the battery again.

Shaw walks into the station without indicating whether or not Charles should follow him, so Charles defaults to following his commander. When he gets inside Shaw nods his head to indicate Charles should drop the duffel bag he’s been carrying, then goes to a rack on the wall that holds a bunch of swords.

Swords. Good god, what kind of medieval universe has Charles landed in? In the city most of the officers are carrying guns, even if they have to severely limit the bullets. The officers he’s hung out with at the pub tell him they will usually collect the bullets and take them to the force metal-kinetic, the only one in the city, who reforms them. But here in the outlying area, without a metal-kinetic, Charles isn’t quite sure what he’d expected, except maybe not swords. Shaw takes one off the shelf and hands it to Charles.

“Better than nothing” Shaw grunts, and Charles realizes he probably hasn’t hidden his disbelief that well. He’s going to be riding horses and carrying a fucking sword. Charles feels a wave of emotion come off Shaw that indicates his new boss thinks he’s a world class idiot.

"Darwin," Shaw barks, clearly done with the new recruit, "show Xavier where he'll bunk."

Darwin materializes by Charles' side and flashes him another of his friendly grins that makes Charles feel slightly more at ease. He smiles back.

"So," Charles starts, following Darwin up a rickety looking set of stairs. "What do you do?"

Ironically, a government bent on controlling its mutant population has comprised its police force almost entirely of mutants. They are all chipped, of course. It keeps everyone safe to keep the mutations under control.

"Adaptation to survive, and call me Armando. Darwin is what Shaw calls me,” Darwin says, the expression on his face making it clear that he doesn’t appreciate his nickname. “I'm good when it comes to pulling bodies out of a lake."

Charles eyes grow wide.

"Have you pulled many bodies out of lakes up here?"

Armando laughs. "None in two years. One more year and I'm out of this shit hole."

"Shaw makes it sound like you're on the front lives of fighting the terrorists up here," Charles says, remembering how he practically chastised Charles for his lack of knowledge about House of M. "He knows a lot."

"Shaw is a blow hard," Armando says without missing a beat. "The fight is more in his head than anywhere else."

"How does he know so much?" Charles asks.

"No idea," Armando shrugs, pushing his way into a small room that has rickety bunks on either side. Between the beds is a small pot bellied stove that looks like it came from a couple centuries ago. Charles smells the familiar scent of burning dung. It reminds him of home. “This is the man’s life. He’s been up here for six years. Twice as long as anyone else. Nothing to do but sit around, so maybe he’s used that time to educate himself.”

Charles doesn’t ask anything else. He puts his duffle down on a clearly unoccupied bunk and looks around. The room is clean and small, and will be his home for the next three years. There's a small closet at one end and other than that it's largely unadorned. It's a small cry from the cavernous halls of Westchester but the stove in the room makes it much warmer. Charles misses his childhood home but he doesn't miss the never ending chill that seems to accompany it. Overall the room is cozy and comfortable.

Charles glances at the bunk where Armando is sitting, his elbows resting on his knees as he watches Charles unpack. On the wall behind his new colleague are a few pictures, standing out in starkness of the room. Charles leans towards them, squinting with curiosity, and he feels the sudden rush of Armando's embarrassment wash over him. Charles should look away but instead he peers closer. There is a picture of what is obviously Armando's family, a picture of a mountain range with a body of water in the foreground, and lastly a picture of Armando next to an admittedly handsome blonde man who has his arm slung around Armando's shoulder. They are both smiling at the camera and they look happy. Charles' eyes go from the pictures to the officer who is now looking uncomfortable, and Charles can't say if it's his empathy or his telepathy that brings on an immediate understanding of the situation, and suddenly, as clear as a bell, Charles gets a name.

_Alex._

Charles shakes his head. Where did that come from?

"You miss him?" Charles says gently and now he feels relief surge towards him.

"Yeah, I do," Armando says, and his smile is back, "He's all the way on the west coast and you know how hard it is to get letters back and forth these days...."

The other man's voice trails off and he stares out the solitary window that looks out onto the endless gray, not saying anything for a long moment, then he looks back at Charles.

"No matter," Armando says, "just one more year and we'll have a chance to be stationed together. You got anyone at home?"

Charles has a lot of people at home, but none that he actually misses or would hope to see again, so he shakes his head 'no'. Only Sharon, and he’s not about to put his mother’s picture up on his wall. Their relationship is far from the one he sees in Armando’s picture of his family.

“Well, get some sleep, newbie,” Armando says kindly, “breakfast at 4 am and then we head out for patrol.”

“Patrol?” Charles asks, not quite sure what Armando means. He’s not entirely sure what he’ll be doing on this detail in general, and Shaw hadn’t stuck around to provide him much information. Charles rummages around in his duffel and finds his pajamas, then he throws the whole thing into the closet. Getting organized can come later. Right now he’s feeling bone-weary from a long day of traveling and being somewhere new, and despite the gnawing feeling of hunger in his stomach, Charles thinks it best he just get some sleep now. Especially with a 4 am breakfast. He looks around for somewhere to change and quickly realizes that this isn’t a place where he’s going to get any privacy. At least the air that hits his bare skin, as he quickly pulls off his police uniform and swaps it for soft pajamas that still smell like home, is toasty warm. He crawls under the scratchy wool of the blanket on his bed that has been clearly mended over and over again, like most things in a world where you can’t just go to the store and replace things easily, and with a sigh his body drifts off to sleep.

It turns out that patrolling might be the most exciting thing to do at the Paradise station. It seems to be the majority of what Charles does over the next two weeks. He gets up before the sky becomes a lighter shade of gray, marking the rise of a sun that no one ever sees, eats his fill of a shockingly bland but filling porridge provided for their nourishment, and not much else, and then heads out to spend countless hours on horseback, riding through the dripping gray trees that cover the hills around them, looking for who knows what. And when he’s done with that, he does nothing except try to treat the aches and pains that come from sitting in the saddle for an entire day.

Paradise Station has approximately thirty officers occupying it. It’s housed in an old ski lodge that was the center of alpine entertainment over the winters before the Burning Day. After the oil supply was choked off the world discovered that their neverending production and consumption of shiny new goods would have to come to an end. Repurpose and reuse became the motto, and when the police needed to more heavily monitor the outlying wilderness around Paradise, instead of building a new headquarters, they co-opted a centuries old wooden clapboard building that had seen better days. It had been as lovingly restored as possible but the dampness still leaked in between the cracks of the weathered walls and, outside of his small, cozy quarters, even on a good day the chill there far surpassed the chill of Westminster.

So Charles patrols and the rest of the time he entertains himself by playing chess with Armando and listening to Shaw obsess about House of M’s next move, biting his tongue and never challenging his commander about the fact that it appears that House of M is entirely unaware of these parts and, basically, doesn’t give a shit.

Charles is wrong. One day everything changes.

Charles is sitting in the common room with the chess board set up in front of him, thinking through different attacks, determined to give Armando a run for his money once he's done in the shop when Shaw comes to sit across from him.

“Xavier,” Shaw says, glancing across the chessboard with his usual disinterest. He doesn’t care what his people do off-duty, which might be nice if there was something to actually do at Paradise Station. Shaw’s lack of concern means no attempt is made to provide entertainment other than the meager library of worn books and a few packs of cards that can make a full deck if someone makes the effort to combine them.

“Yes sir,” Charles answers, holding the queen he’s been pondering in his fingers, the sharp edges of her crown pricking at his fingers as he gazes at his superior.

“We have intel on House of M. We need someone to go undercover and you’re perfect for the job.”

Charles raises his eyebrows and he feels a wave of what feels like desperation roll off Shaw, but it’s gone as soon as he thought he felt it. There’s something about this man that always makes Charles uneasy. While everyone else is an open book for Charles, there is something endlessly controlled about Shaw, as if he only lets Charles see what he wants him to see. It’s strange because one of the reasons the people around him are open books is that they’re not used to having to guard themselves against telepaths. The way Shaw leaks out emotions then stops speaks of practice.

“Me?” Charles asks, still holding the chess piece, watching the other man carefully. “I’m the least experienced here….”

“...and the least known,” Shaw says quickly, “as well as a telepath. We can use your powers for this one, Xavier.”

“Okay,” Charles says slowly, feeling somewhat grateful to have something to do that will relieve the boredom, although he’s not sure where he would go undercover in this godforsaken wasteland. So he asks, and the answer thoroughly surprises Charles.

“The Peony Pavilion.”

He’s heard of the Peony Pavilion. Some of the men visit there on their leave, and once Charles gets his first leave he had planned to avail himself of the services offered there. Right now he can only live vicariously through the stories, and men return telling him that after months at Paradise, it’s fucking amazing to get laid. When Charles looks slightly uncomfortable about going to the Peony Pavillion, Darwin had told him not to worry. They cater to men who fuck men as well. Post Burning Day, issues around sexuality are nowhere near as pressing as just surviving, and when it comes to whorehouses, it’s all about supply and demand. Enough men enjoy another man sucking their cock that the Peony Pavilion caters to all types, and prostitution is one of the few ways anyone can make a decent living these days. So when Charles finally gets his leave, he figures his money will be just as good there as anyone else’s.

It seems he might get to visit sooner rather than later.

“Madam Frost caters to all types,” Shaw says, looking at Charles meaningfully, and Charles tries to ignore what his boss is implying, “including the, ahem, more exotic, and I hear she has someone very exotic there right now. A full-mutie.”

Charles winces at the slur.

Full-mutant. It’s a term for someone who is unchipped. Someone who is dangerous. Most full-mutants are in the camps, living behind suppression walls, kept safely away from general society. But some have escaped, and there are people who will pay good money to see their powers at full-force. More money than they would pay for the best fuck of their life. Charles has never known a full-mutant. Usually they hide and hide until they are found by the government’s sentinel technology and taken away. He’s only seen this once, walking down the dirty sidewalk of the city one day when three sentinels sped by him into an alleyway, and the next thing Charles knew they were dragging out a young woman who had wings that spanned almost the entire width of the alleyway and was spitting balls of acid at them. Charles had watched impassively as she screamed for someone to help her and one of the sentinels struck her with its heavy metal hand. Maybe the sentinels could be gentler, but she was the one who had decided not to get chipped in the first place. In that case, it’s only a matter of time.

“An unchipped metal-kinetic.” Shaw says, his voice still neutral.

Charles slowly puts the queen down. Shaw doesn’t offer any more explanation, but he doesn’t have to. The Lehnsherr boy. Son of the leader of House of M.

“Fuck,” Charles says softly. Shaw nods at Charles’ observation.

“You’re not known to Frost. You can go in there under the guise of a wealthy patron and ask to see his talents. For a price. And then, we can capture him.”

Charles nods. Yes, of course he’ll do it. He has three years at Paradise Station. If he can help snag the son of Edie Lehnsherr, maybe it could jettison him out of here sooner.

“Good,” Shaw says. “Get on some civilian clothes. We leave in an hour.”

It’s a two hour ride to Peony Pavillion. It’s like any other ride with Shaw, silence punctuated with sudden spurts of orders from his superior, who is gripping the reins of his horse tightly and radiating tension.

“Use your telepathy to see if it’s the Lehnsherr boy,” Shaw says at one point.

“I can’t read minds,” Charles reminds him. “I can only pick up general feelings,” Charles answers, feeling mildly annoyed that his boss doesn’t seem to be aware of his limitations.

“If it’s Lehnsherr, he’ll be shielded. You don’t need to read his mind. If he’s unreadable, it’s most likely him.”

Unreadable, like endless blank pages of a book. That’s a good way to put it, Charles thinks. He’s very new to having his telepathy active, but blank is what he feels most when he’s around Shaw, and Charles wonders if maybe Shaw is doing this same thing he’s telling Charles about.

“You know a lot about all of this, shielding and stuff,” Charles ventures, and Shaw grips his reins tighter as they navigate their horses around a deep track in the mud.

“I’ve been around a long time, Xavier,” Shaw says, giving Charles a cold glance. “I’ve been fighting this war since the beginning. Probably when you were still in diapers.”

Part of Charles wants to protest Shaw’s assumption that he’s young, although he admits that clearly he has much less experience than the man who is now guiding his horse around a fallen tree and muttering profanity under his breath. Shaw picks up the radio.

“Paradise HQ. It’s Sebastian. Can you tell one of the boys that another tree is down on the road to town. Let’s get it cleared in the next couple days.”

It seems Shaw’s lecture is over. At least for now.

They arrive in the town, which is really five buildings clustered alongside the muddy road, and Shaw leaves him on the edge. Charles hears the now-familiar squelch of mud under his horses’ hooves, and he pulls his coat tighter around him as he guides her down the muddy track towards a garish pink building at the end of the ‘town’. That anyone had the wherewithal to bring color to this cluster of gray, worn buildings that can barely be called a town somehow amuses Charles. When he arrives at the golden door of the Peony Pavillion Charles tethers his horse, then uses the scraper to the left of the door to remove the mud that now cakes his boots just from dismounting and walking between where his horse is tied up and the door of the brothel.

The black rain had only lasted a matter of months after it started. Sharon had made Charles stay inside the whole time, which was hard for a seven year old boy. Looking back, maybe it was all the time inside with the staff around constantly that triggered his mutation so early. Anyway, the black rain didn’t last that long in the scheme of things, but it was long enough. Long enough to destroy anything of beauty and long enough for the world to realize that they were fucked. There would be no recovery from the level of environmental disaster that had been brought onto the world by House of M and Edie Lehnsherr. Then it stopped, and you could go outside again, although the clouds were still there and the entire world was now muted and colorless. And ironically, none of that stopped the rain.

People in the past had labeled it climate change. The world called it a disaster of epic proportions. Charles called it cursed to live forever in wet, in the mud, to never see the sun again, never have a dry day. Endless rain that nothing can truly thrive in.

Endless rain means endless mud.

A woman greets him as he walks through the door. She is sinewy and tall, with short blond hair and a scar that runs through the middle of her right eyebrow down across her eyelid, ending at the top of her cheek as if someone had taken a dagger and drawn a straight line, marking her face. She would be perfect without it, but with it, she’s deeply striking, and it gives her beauty a dangerous edge. Charles shivers a bit when he sees her because the emotion rolling off her can hardly be called emotion at all. It’s a chilling combination of anger and disdain as she eyes her latest customer.

Emma Frost. Madam of the Peony Pavillion.

She is dressed in head-to-toe black leather, and where Charles might expect some cleavage, Emma actually doesn’t show any skin. Only her face with that scar and those eyes the consider him coolly.

“We're expensive,” Emma sneers, not bothering with a greeting. It’s as if she expects a newcomer to think that things might be cheaper in the wilderness, that the whores might be lesser quality, but not when it comes to Emma. Charles feels a brief wave of pride roll off her. “But I have quality girls.”

“I’m not just looking for girls,” Charles says smoothly, slipping into the part he’s playing. He’s filthy rich and he wants it all. But most of all, he wants her most prized act. The metal-kinetic.

“We have boys too, sugar,” Emma purrs, her eyes still sizing him up, trying to make sense of this stranger who has walked into almost the middle of nowhere. Charles feels a small push in his head, the slightest probe, and Emma suddenly goes blank.

Her shields are up. Charles recognizes what Shaw explained would happen, and this means that Charles has gotten more used to living with his telepathy than he realized, because all of a sudden he feels strangely empty, unable to feel the woman who stands in front of him. Her mouth twists a little but the rest of her face remains impassive, then she gives him what appears to be a barely genuine smile.

“I’ll get you my best of both,” Emma smiles and takes Charles’ hand in hers. She leads him slowly forward and they go through a doorway that is obscured by a hanging glass curtain that makes a shower of noise as they walk through it, tiny tinkling that fill Charles' ears. They end up in a room without windows, ornate tallow lamps lining the walls, and Emma gestures for Charles to sit on a pile of pillows on one side. She turns to a doorway on an adjacent wall, nods and claps her hands. Once. Twice. Three times. Charles hears a giggle and the shuffling of feet, and one by one the prostitutes line up in front of him, scantily clothed, standing still for his perusal. There are women and men, all young and smooth, shaved perfectly, painted lips and eyes, and perfumed. They shift their weight as they stand, fluttering lashes and licking lips, and Charles hears a giggle now and then and the soft jangle of jewelry that adorns wrists and ankles. Their beauty is jarring in this bleak wilderness.

“Some ale,” Emma says, handing Charles a cup. He takes a long, deep drink, and the taste of it is surprisingly pleasant on his tongue. It’s not like the watered down home brew the officers make at the Paradise Station. It tastes thick and malty, with a strange note of honey, and after two swallows, Charles feels it going directly to his head. He tries not to drink too much, but it’s so delicious, he cannot help but take a third drink, and the room seems to tilt a little.

One by one they step forward, each telling Charles his or her name, and they are all something ridiculous, like Rose and Tiger Lilly and Black Dahlia. All flowers that speak to a time when there were such things in this world, although Charles highly doubts that any of these people have actually seen their namesakes in real life. Charles can kind of remember flowers, a fleeting glimpse of wandering through Sharon’s flower garden, the whisper of the scent of rose so soft that he’s not sure he hasn’t made up the way they smell.

The prostitutes step forward, and Charles feels the far away tingle of his cock responding as he looks on the swell of breasts, the hard planes of a young man’s chest, the path of skin where his thigh and groin meet that’s made perfectly for nuzzling. Charles bites at the inside of his mouth, because this isn’t what he’s here for, despite his cock telling him otherwise, and despite his general disinterest in the female sex, it seems if you give him enough strong ale and put him in a room full of mostly naked men and women after months of not even enough privacy for a decent wank, he’ll be reasonably interested in just about whatever is being offered.

Charles licks his lips. He wills his cock down and he clears his throat.

“No,” he says, looking at Emma who is surveying the room, watching carefully to see which of her employees will catch Charles’ fancy. “I want something even more exotic. I hear you cater to that. I can get better whores in New York. I came all this way for something different.”

Emma stares at Charles for a long moment through narrowed eyes and Charles can practically see the wheels turning in her head.

“It will cost you,” Emma finally says.

“I have money,” Charles answers smoothly. “Enough to buy myself whatever I want. I want to spend it here.”

Emma looks at the people standing before Charles and with a quick gesture, she sends them scurrying out of the room, and for a brief moment Charles feels a keen sense of disappointment. He would have liked to look just a bit longer. Emma turns back to face him, an unreadable look on her face.

“You can only watch. He won’t fuck you and you can’t fuck him,” Emma says, her voice even.

Charles blinks. Is that what he’s supposed to want? Is he supposed to want to fuck a mutant? Is that the kind of perversion people seek.

“If he wanted to, he could kill you,” Emma continues. Charles blinks again, and he feels unease creeping up his spine. Emma is still blank, a unreadable black hole, and Charles feels unnervingly lost without being able to at least feel her emotions.

“But he won’t,” Charles says, keeping his voice even, “because that would be bad for business.”

Emma smiles, and this time it seems genuine and even slightly amused, as if she’s surprised to find Charles a somewhat worthy verbal opponent. “Wait here,” she says. So Charles does as he’s been told. He waits. After what feels like an eternity, Emma walks back in and behind her is a man. At first glance it appears that whoever she has brought with her is a rather unremarkable man, and Charles wonders if he’s in the process of being played, but then the man looks at Charles and Charles can barely hold back the gasp of air that tries to leave his lips.

His eyes.

They are ice blue and piercing, and Charles has seen them before. They are burned into his brain. The boy clinging to Edie Lehnsherr’s side, looking at the camera with her same eyes. Now those eyes are looking at him. Charles doesn’t need to see if the man is shielded to confirm that he’s looking at Edie Lehnsherr’s son, but he reaches out with his mind anyways and is greeted by nothing. It’s him.

Emma steps away and the man steps forward. Now that he’s closer, Charles can see that he is actually far from ordinary. He’s tall and ranging, with broad shoulders. He looks strong, almost wiry, but thin as if he could use a good meal and a long night’s sleep. Charles’ eyes go to his hands, and they are big with long fingers, encased in ratty black fingerless gloves. His eyes travel up his body to his face, and that’s when Charles feels that he can no longer breathe. His face is rugged and lined, can only be described as weathered. There is a jagged line of white scar tissue running down one cheek. His eyes are guarded. The man's face is one of the most handsome faces Charles has ever encountered, and he has encountered many handsome men in his time. More than he’s usually willing to admit. Charles licks his lips and tries not to stare too much.

The room is silent, and the man stands in front of Charles, his stance wide, borderline defiant. Unlike the other members of the Peony Pavillion, he is dressed in the same type of clothes Charles is wearing - loose trousers, a patched woolen shirt, a heavy sweater over that with a hood drawn up that leaves his face partially in shadows. He looks like one of the townspeople Charles had encountered as he had trudged down the street towards the brothel less than an hour ago, not like a whore who people pay for pleasure.

“What’s your name?” Charles asks, expecting some sort of exotic name. Is there a metal flower out there?

“Erik,” the man says, and his voice is deep and rough, and Charles feels his breath hitch a bit.

“Erik,” Charles repeats, smirking a bit, cocking an eyebrow. “Not Dragon’s Armum or something ridiculous like that?”

“Just Erik,” the man says, sounding unamused and refusing to return Charles’ smile.

“Well, Erik,” Charles says, “I’ve paid good money. Let’s see what you can do.”

Charles has seen the chipped metal-kinetic in the city work, and that had fascinated him. What he witnesses now astounds him in an entirely unexpected manner. Outside the woman being dragged from the alleyway, Charles has never in his life encountered an unchipped full-mutant. Until now.

Emma materializes from somewhere in the shadows of the room and slides a bowl in front of Charles. Charles looks down and realizes that it’s a bowl of metal. Small metal bearings to be exact. Erik does not move. His eyes do not leave Charles’. He holds so still Charles can barely tell if he’s breathing. Slowly, smoothly, the small metal balls rise up into the air. They linger there as Charles stares at them, then stares past them into those ice blue eyes. Then they start to move. They weave and twirl, creating an intricate pattern, and between the strong alcohol and the mesmerizing movement of the bearings Charles feels like he’s being lulled to sleep. Then the pattern changes and the bearings start to blend into each other until they become an undulating metal blob floating in the air, shimmering, then it folds in on itself and morphs into a single, perfectly formed silver peony that floats down into Erik’s hand and he then holds out towards Charles.

Charles is nothing short of astounded. He has never in his life seen something like this. He leaps to his feet and goes to stand closer to where Erik is still standing, the metal peony still in his hand. Charles just stands, staring at the man standing in front of him, his own azure blue eyes locked with the ice blue that stare back at him.

“You could bring down this building,” Charles says, his voice quiet.

“Yes,” Erik says, plainly.

“Crush the sun train.”

“If I wanted to.”

“Can you kill a man?”

“There is iron in your blood, yes?” Erik answers, his voice still even. Charles shakes his head and slowly his astoundment slips away and he remembers his task at hand. Charles reaches out a finger and touches Erik on the cheek. The other man doesn’t move. Doesn’t even flinch. His skin is hot under Charles’ fingertip. Almost burning.

“I want you to fuck me,” Charles says, licking his lips, and he realizes that as much as he’s playing a part, there is truth in his words. His cock is wide awake now and hard. He’s never been so attracted to someone in his entire life. Oh God, it’s almost painful how much he wants him.

The whole room freezes and Charles watches the jaw of the man in front of him tightens almost imperceptibly. Erik’s eyes don’t leave his, and they go cold, except for one brief moment when Charles sees something in them, a quick echo of the same desire Charles feels, then it’s gone. The hair on the back of Charles' neck prickles and the air is suddenly infused with an almost palpable sense of danger. The metal peony on the floor starts to vibrate then it shatters into its original form, hundreds of tiny ball bearings rising into the air then falling to the ground with a loud clatter.

"Fuck, no," Erik growls, but he makes no move to remove Charles’ hand. Charles is almost quivering with fear but he must complete this task. He draws his finger along Erik's jaw then moves his hand to grip Erik's wrist, squeezing.

"Yes," Charles hisses, his mind racing, his breath hitching slightly, and the tension in the room is thick. "I paid for you."

What happens next is a blur. Emma steps between Charles and Erik, forcing Charles to drop Erik's wrist.

"I told you..." Emma starts to say.

At that very moment Shaw bursts through the door, strides over to Charles and pushes him until he tumbles backwards onto the pillows he'd been reclining on previously.

"You're drunk," Shaw sneers at Charles, and Charles realizes he's right. His head swirls with a heady combination of alcohol and arousal.

"Sebastian," Emma says coolly, moving to stand next to Erik, her stance wide and her hands on her hips. "I thought we had an understanding."

"Not when you're harboring an unchipped full-mutant," Shaw says, turning to gaze at Erik. "A terrorist."

Erik doesn't blink. He says nothing.

"What is a member of House of M doing here, Emma?" Shaw says, walking up to Erik. "In the middle of nowhere?"

Erik still says nothing. He refuses to look at Shaw who is standing in front of him, gazing over Shaw's shoulder at the wall behind where Charles is sprawled watching this whole affair, trying to feel something with his muted powers, but he gets nothing. For everything going on the room is surprisingly blank.

"What can you do, mutie?" Shaw hisses.

Charles winces at the slur, out of the mouth of a man who is himself a mutant, although Charles is unclear what Shaw's power is. He'll find out shortly. Erik still says nothing but the ball bearings on the floor rattle.

"Show me," Shaw says smoothly. This earns a blink from Erik.

"Fuck you," Erik says in an angry, gravelly tone that's surprisingly full of emotion. Shaw frowns and reaches out, placing his hand on Erik's neck, and before Erik can flinch away, he's thrown backwards, landing hard on the floor with a loud thump.

"I said show me, boy," Shaw hisses, with more emotion than Charles has seen from his commander in months. Erik uncurls himself from the floor and comes to a stand. The metal bearings rise from the floor all at once and start to swirl in the intricate patterns Erik had shown Charles earlier. He stares as the metal balls start to conglomerate together and before Charles can even blink, they’ve formed a sword and it’s cutting through the air with a ringing tone, plunging towards Shaw.

“Die, government pig,” Erik spits, and Shaw put his hand up just before the sword strikes his torso right where his heart is and pushes it away. In a flash, Shaw pounces on Erik, pushing him down to the ground, pulling Erik’s arms behind him roughly and securing his wrists with some strands of rope that he pulls tight enough that Charles can see red marks on Erik’s wrists. Erik is face down on the floor, and there is blood on his cheek. Shaw is now sitting on top of him as he yells obscenities, and Erik is no longer the calm man who had stared blankly at Charles just moments ago. Shaw glances up at Emma who is watching the whole proceedings with studied disdain.

“I’ll deal with you later, Frost.” Shaw says coldly.

Emma turns to look at Charles through narrowed eyes as Shaw pulls Erik up to stand and starts marching him outside where it turns out Darwin is waiting with the car.

“That one was on the house,” she says looking at Charles, who undoubtedly looks appropriately scared and overwhelmed, because that’s exactly how he feels. What the fuck did he just witness? He can’t quite make sense of all of it, except that he now knows that everyone in the room, including his commander, can shield themselves from his telepathy, and that Erik Lehnsherr isn’t just Edie Lehnsherr’s son, he’s a powerful mutant. Powerful enough to kill people, yet Shaw could bring him down with a touch. For the first time, Charles wonders about Shaw’s power and he makes a mental note to start asking a few unobtrusive questions. What he saw today doesn’t strike him as something he’d see from a mutant who is actively chipped, even if he’s been allowed to maintain some of his powers. He knows with certainty that Shaw could kill just as easily as Erik.

Charles rides back to the station, knowing that Shaw is way ahead of him. His horse trots along, pulling Shaw’s behind them along the muddy road and it gives Charles time to go over the events that had just happened. For the first time since arriving at Paradise he thinks that maybe something is going on that he’s not entirely aware of. He decides he’ll talk to Armando when he gets back. He’s the only person he knows remotely well enough to trust, and for some reason Charles feels like he needs to trust someone right now.

Shaw is waiting for him when he returns, standing in the foyer of the station, his hands on his hips, his eyes cold. Charles glances through an open doorway into the storeroom that generally remains unused, and he sees that Erik is in there. A quick glance shows Shaw has put a suppression collar around his neck, an old technology that was used before the chip, and still used to control full-mutants before they’re chipped. His arms are stretched above his head, suspended from a hook hanging from the ceiling, his head hanging down. Charles eyes go to the floor where he sees perfectly round drops of blood congealing on the floor. Charles remembers the academy, the chapters on how torture doesn’t work. His eyes flick back to Shaw.

“He won’t talk,” Shaw says tightly when he notices what Charles is looking at. Charles doesn’t say anything, just looks at his commander. Suddenly Charles is hit with a wave of pain that isn’t his own and he realizes that Lehnsherr is either no longer shielding himself or he no longer can. Charles fights back bile that rises in his throat, and now is not the time to throw up. Not in front of your commander. Not when you’re the newest officer at the station. His disgust will have to wait for later.

“Is there a different way?” Charles asks, trying to hide his revulsion. There has to be a different way. The pain ebbs again and Charles fights the urge to close his eyes against it.

“I don’t know, Xavier,” Shaw sneers, clearly annoyed by Charles impudence and willingness to question his tactics. “Why don’t you tell me. After all, I’ve only been here for six years and I’ve never found a better way. Compassion just breeds contempt in animals like Lehnsherr. The ones who would kill our people and gut our children without blinking. All in the name of mutant freedom.”

Charles remembers the words of Edie Lehnsherr, the way her mouth moved as she stared into the camera, stared at HIM, a seven year old boy who had no idea how the world was about to change.

_You have killed us. Now we will kill you._

It seems her son feels the same way.

Charles stands staring at nothing in particular as Shaw turns to walk back towards the room where Erik Lehnsherr is hung from the ceiling. Charles bites at his lip and an idea bubbles up.

“If compassion doesn’t work,” Charles says slowly, thinking as he talks, “and neither does pain, what about deception?”

Shaw stops then turns slowly back to face Charles and Charles thinks he feels something from his superior, a strange sense of relief, and it’s gone as quickly as he thinks he felt it, before Charles can even grasp onto the emotion.

“Talk to me, newbie,” Shaw says quietly.

“He doesn’t know me, sir,” Charles says. “What if I help him escape and then he can lead me to the headquarters of House of M? You wouldn’t just have Lehnsherr’s son. You would have the whole organization. And without this…” Charles gestures towards the man strung up from the ceiling.

Shaw’s eyes spark as Charles talks.

"It could work Xavier," Shaw says thoughtfully. "It really could work. As long as you remember one thing.”

“Which is?” Charles asks.

"Never forget that it’s only a game. This man. Erik Lehnsherr. He can confuse things.”

Charles nods. Of course. It’s undercover. It’s not real. He’ll remember that.

It doesn't take Charles long to get ready. He fills a pack with provisions: handfuls of nutrition bars, flint and tinder, clothes, and rides out to secure two horses about a mile from the station. He pulls on the coat he’d brought from Westchester, the one Shaw had deemed not enough for Paradise, then secures his sword into his belt. He will be on the run, and although he trusts that the government forces pursuing them will not truly harm them, there are other dangers in the woods that stretch out around Paradise Station. In this post-Burning Day world the rule of law and expectations of order are few and far between.

Charles waits until Armando is fast asleep, snoring softly in his bunk and then he drops lightly to the floor and grabs his pack. He and Shaw had decided it best to keep complete secrecy around their plan, sharing it with no one until after Charles had freed Erik and they had escaped. He makes his way down the stairs so softly and quietly it's almost as if he's the wind, whispering his way through the cracks in between the worn wooden clapboards.

There are two guards on duty outside the room where Erik is imprisoned, and as promised, Shaw has given them something to make them sleep. Their heads lay on the table, nestled in their arms as they slumber away. Slowly, silently, Charles turns the doorknob to the room and pushes the door open.

Erik is still hung from the ceiling, his arms stretched painfully above his head just as Charles had seen him earlier. Charles winces at the cruelty of it and wonders briefly why Shaw is so intent on hurting Erik. Charles hates House of M as much as anyone else but Shaw's hatred seems to have a particular brutality to it. Erik’s head is hanging as Charles had seen it earlier, his hair dark with sweat. He lifts his head when Charles enters the room, squinting his eyes at the pale light from the foyer that slices through the darkness, and Charles can’t hold back his gasp when he sees the gash across Erik’s face, the swelling under one eye, the bruise blooming purple across one cheek. Anyone else might cringe at Charles entrance, fearing the return of their tormentor, but Erik just looks at Charles with a steady gaze.

“Has Sebastian sent you to continue his work?” Erik says, his tone bitter. Charles shakes his head, realizing that the hood he has pulled up over his head is obscuring his face and Erik must think he’s just another one of Shaw’s men come to hurt him more. He pulls his sword out from his belt and balances it in his hand. Erik chuckles a little under his breath as the sword gleams in the darkness. “Or to kill me? Not willing to do it himself?”

Charles shakes his head again. He lifts the sword and slices through the rope, and Erik lurches to the floor with a 'umph', unable to catch himself, his face ending up pressed into the rough wood planks of the storeroom, his arms behind his back, still tied. Charles surges forward, taking the tip of his sword and slicingthrough the ropes that keep Erik’s wrists bound. Erik’s arms snap forward and he pushes himself into a crouch, staying there, rubbing his wrists. He doesn’t look at Charles, just rubs at the raw skin, as if he wants to heal it by touch. Charles stands, staring, suddenly infected with inertia. After what seems like a long moment, Erik looks up at him.

“Who…” Erik starts, then his eyes widen with recognition as Charles pushes back his hood to reveal his face. Charles knows Erik remembers him from the Peony Pavilion. “You,” Erik says.

“I came for you,” Charles whispers. Erik looks at him through narrow eyes.

“I will not be your pet,” Erik says, almost matter of fact, and Charles remembers asking Erik if he could kill someone, and Erik’s answer.

_There is iron in your blood, yes?_

No, Erik will be no one’s pet, but that’s not what Charles is here for. Then he remembers another moment from less than a day ago. His fingers touching Erik’s cheek, the way his skin burned, and Charles whispering.

_I want you to fuck me._

Charles swallows. “I’m not here for that,” he says into the silence. “I’m here to rescue you.”

“You?” Erik laughs, looking around, seeing what in the room might be of use, and Charles knows it’s only a matter of time before Erik reaches out, pulls that iron out of his blood, stops his heart. He has the power. He doesn’t care about Charles. “I don’t need rescuing.”

“Everybody needs rescuing,“ Charles says. Erik gazes at him without emotion but says nothing. He tugs at the collar around his neck.

“Help me get this fucking thing off,” Erik growls, and now he’s glaring at Charles, who remains motionless as the other man struggles with the device clamped around his neck. It seems Erik Lehnsherr, terrorist, is considering accepting his help.

“I have horses,” Charles says, remaining where he is, despite Erik’s request for help. Erik just glares harder and continues to struggle with the collar. “I have food.”

“Fuck off,” Erik says, hooking his fingers under the device and pulling.

“I can get you far. Away from here. Back to your people.”

Erik stops messing with the collar and looks at Charles.

“To my people? And who do you think my people are, pray tell?”

Charles feels the back of his neck prickle with danger. This is the moment he must step carefully. Too much and he’ll reveal his plan to Erik, and then he’s as good as dead.

“I don’t know,” he lies. “I just know that you don’t belong here.”

Erik is still watching Charles, and Charles can almost see his thoughts as he weighs what Charles is offering.

“And why me? Why help me?” Erik asks. Charles mouth is dry and he wishes he had a drink of water, something to wet his tongue that feels almost cracked.

“You intrigue me,” Charles answers. It’s not a lie. He’s never met anyone like Erik Lehnsherr. A full powered mutant, one who can kill someone with a simple twist of his hand, who can form a sword from nothing but bits of metal. He remembers those banners behind Edie Lehnsherr, waving in the wind, the plumes of smoke rising behind them.

_Mutant and Proud._

Charles sees something give in Erik’s eyes, or the way he holds himself. He’s not sure what it is. A small sag in his shoulders, a softness in his gaze, and he knows he’s convinced the other man.

“Okay,” Erik says. “Now, can you get this damn thing off? I can barely think with this collar on.”

Charles nods and steps forward. He reaches in his pocket, pulls out a long, slender pick made of metal, and Charles deftly picks the lock, pulling off the collar, his fingers briefly brushing across the skin on Erik’s neck. His skin still feels as hot as it did before, and although the touch is brief, Charles suppressed a shudder. Erik shakes his shoulders and closes his eyes, then lets out a sigh of relief.

“I’ve never used one,” Charles says, “but it takes a bit of time for your powers to come back. At least I’ve heard.” Erik glances at him and nods. He scratches at his neck.

“So,” Erik says.

“So?” Charles repeats, wondering if Erik is going to agree to come with him or not.

“I don’t even know your name.”

Charles almost laughs. The other man has a reasonable point.

“Charles. Charles Xavier.”

“So, Charles Xavier, where are your horses?” Erik asks, and with that Charles knows the game has begun. They are officially on the run, and he is officially on the way to destroying House of M.

 

**II**

 

They run through the gray trees, branches reaching out to snag their clothes, and Charles feels the darkness closing in around them. It’s pitch black, not even the moon lights their way, and every once in a while the ground becomes uneven and Charles feels like it’s only a matter of time before a log or root trips him and he ends up sprawled on the loamy gray earth of the forest, where no undergrowth can survive anymore. Somehow he doesn’t trip, his feet nimble and deft as they rush over the landscape. Erik is behind him, a rope secured between the two of them, connecting them, making sure they don’t lose each other as they run. Charles leads the way, winding between towering wraiths of trees who have lived long before Burning Day and will live long after, rising pale and gray into the deep gray sky. They will witness the ages, but right now they just cast shadows that allow Charles and Erik to slip away through the blackness of night, moving quickly towards the horses that Charles has waiting for them.

Erik is silent behind him, and Charles might expect the other man to be breathing heavily, or grunting, but he’s quiet as a ghost, and Charles wonders how many times Erik has had to travel silently through a dark wood, how many times has he had to run away? What has his life been, son of a revolutionary, growing up amongst terrorists. Does he long for normalcy, for house and heart, for warmth on a cold night? Not that many people these days actually have those things, but that doesn’t keep them from dreaming. What does Erik Lehnsherr dream of?

They reach the horses, who are standing in the dark, moving restlessly, their eyes rolling when Charles appears and frightens them. He reaches his hand up and strokes one of them, and she nickers quietly at the familiar touch of his hand. Charles unties the rope that has kept them linked and mounts his horse. Erik mounts the other. Then they ride. They ride until the dawn, when the sky turns from black to gray. They ride even further, and the horses are sweating and they start to lag. They ride far away from Paradise.

Then they stop.

Charles pulls back his reins and his horse comes to a stop, breathing heavily, and his coat his lathered with sweat. Erik pulls to a stop next to Charles and looks over at him.

“We need to rest,” Charles says. “Plus I don’t know where to go next.”

Erik’s mouth quirks in a small smile.

“You orchestrated my great escape and you don’t know where to go.” It’s an observation, not a question.

“To your people,” Charles says, careful to keep his voice neutral. “North? South? Towards the city? Further into the wilderness? I told you I will take you to them.”

Charles looks carefully at Erik, trying to read his expression, trying to get a hint of where they should go. Where is House of M.? Erik shrugs.

“This is a fine direction,” he says. Charles bites back his frustration.

“We still need to rest,” Charles says, “And this looks reasonable.”

They are on a hill, good visibility on every side, and to Charles’ right is a crumbling stone house, a relic left from before the clouds settled in, back when this small hill would have been sunny and full of growing things, a perfect place for a homestead and a small farm. Before everything was destroyed and people could no longer live off the land.

“I’ll build a fire,” Erik says, dismounting and taking his horse’s reins. He leads the panting beast towards the house. Charles stares after him, then dismounts himself and follows. There is a stream running behind the house. Charles can hear it gurgling and singing along. He ties up the horse then goes into the house. Looking around, Charles finds what he was hoping would be there. It’s rusting and has a hole near the rim, but whoever had lived in this house before has left them a gift. A bucket. Charles takes it and goes to the stream. Despite its sweet sound, it’s contaminated. All water sources are, even in the mountains. Charles dips the bucket in and fills it as much as he can, then he walks back to the house. He sees Erik crouched by the hearth, two rocks in his hand, striking them together. Charles goes to his pack and rummages around, and he pulls out three items. One is his flint and tinder. He says Erik’s name and when the other man looks up, he tosses the flint and tinder towards him.

“This is easier,” Charles says. Erik grunts his thanks.

The second item is a packet of antibacterial tablets. Charles pushes one out of the packet and drops it into the bucket. Now they can use the water.

The third is a small pouch that’s heavy in his hand. Charles stands, the pouch in one hand, the other holding the bucket of water that he intends to give to the horses. He walks over to where Erik has now successfully started a small fire and is feeding it some small, dry branches.

“Here,” Charles says, dropping the pouch onto the floor next to Erik. It makes a heavy clunk. Erik glances at it and Charles knows the metal-kinetic knows what’s inside without even looking. The ball bearings from the Peony Pavilion. For Erik. A weapon.

“Thanks,” Erik says, offering a small smile that still doesn’t quite reach his eyes, ice blue and still regarding Charles with distrust, but maybe just a bit less. It's a gesture of trust for Charles to give the metal-kinetic a weapon.

“You’re welcome,” Charles says, hoisting up the bucket a little that’s starting to make his arm ache. “I thought you could use them.”

“I can.”

Later, when they are sitting near the fire that Erik has managed to keep going, Charles looks over at Erik who still has blood crusted above his eye and down one side of his face. He studies Erik’s profile as Erik stares silently into the flickering fire. The woods around them are pitch black, no light except for the stars above. It’s strangely quiet, and in the past the night might have been broken by the hoot of an owl or the howl of a coyote, but not anymore. Not these days.

“Shaw did a good job on you,” Charles remarks, unable to think of something else to say. Erik doesn’t react, doesn’t turn from the fire. He just stares at the flames as they lick along the branches they had gathered in the dim evening light.

“He’s an artist,” Erik says, huffing out a small, dry laugh.

“You called him Sebastian earlier,” Charles says, keeping his tone neutral, “have you encountered him before?”

Erik still doesn’t turn to look at him.

“You could say that,” he says. Charles waits to see if Erik will say anything else, but he doesn’t.

“There’s some treated water left,” Charles says, glancing over at the rusting bucket. It’s not as sanitary as what you might get from a filtration plant. The filtration plants that people rely on for life-giving water. The same ones House of M attempts to blow up regularly. No, it’s not that clean, but it will work. “I can clean that for you.”

Erik finally turns to look at Charles, his skin glowing warmly in the firelight but his face shadowed and unreadable.

“Okay,” Erik says after a long pause.

Okay, Charles thinks to himself. He gets up, feeling Erik’s eyes watch him as he walks to where his pack lies and rummages around, pulling out a clean cloth. He turns and goes to the bucket, dipping the cloth in and wetting it. He wrings it out and goes to crouch next to Erik.

“This will be cold,” Charles says, laying the cloth across some of the crusted blood and leaving it there, allowing the water to soften what’s beneath it. Erik jerks a little at the first touch, either from pain or from the chill, or maybe both. Charles doesn’t relent, keeping his hand pressed against Erik’s brow.

“You’re chipped,” Erik says as Charles holds the cloth in place. “You’re a mutant.”

“Yes,” Charles says, a bit startled at Erik’s observation, then he figures out that Erik must have seen the surgical scar on the back of his neck as he walked across the room, and he realizes that Erik had no idea that he’s like him. Not that Charles is truly like him. He's not an outlaw on the run. “So?” Charles asks, wondering what the other man's point is.

“So, do you want to be?”

Charles blinks. No one has ever asked him if he wants to be chipped. Not even his mother, who sat with him in the clinic waiting room, her eyes shining with tears. Not once did she say to him that she wished it could be different. It’s never been something he’s thought of as a choice, and now this man is asking if he wants this. Does he want to have his powers muted.

“I don’t know any different. I’ve been chipped since I was seven. Not long after….”

Charles’ voice trails off. Not long after your mother destroyed the world. He can’t say that, can’t tip his hand.

“One of the early ones, and so young,” Erik murmurs, frowning a little, and Charles thinks the cloth has softened the dried blood enough and he starts to wipe it away. His fingers work slowly, carefully, but still it must hurt, yet Erik doesn’t flinch. “I’m sorry they did that to you. There are other ways.”

“What ways?” Charles says, trying quell his irritation as Erik telling him there were other ways, like it’s that easy. “The camps? I heard them talking. They said I’m an omega level telepath. It was the chip or the camps.”

“Omega level?” Erik says, sounding surprised. “Even Emma...”

Erik’s mouth clamps shut, as if he’s said too much. Charles raises his eyebrows. Suddenly Emma shielding herself makes more sense. She’s a telepath and she’s part of House of M. That’s why Erik was there. She was hiding him. Charles keeps wiping at the dried blood and Erik twitches a little as Charles rubs the washcloth over a particularly painful looking bruise.

“Do you want to keep it in?” Erik asks as Charles works on the blood that’s streaked down his face. Charles freezes.

“What do you mean?” he asks, dropping his hand and looking directly at Erik. Their eyes meet, cold pale blue and deep blue.

“Exactly what I said. Do you want to keep it? I know how to remove the chip. We’ve done it a million times.”

We. House of M. A million times. There are other ways. Ways to live without the chip but not end up in the camps. Charles’ head is spinning. He tries to focus. If he tells Erik he wants to keep the chip, will Erik believe that Charles wants to help him? If the chip is removed, what will it feel like to actually have his full powers? Will it be like when he was seven and unable to stop the voices. Will he go crazy, unable to stop all the thoughts?

“I don’t know,” Charles says truthfully, looking at the other man.

“Is it strange not have your powers?” Erik asks, sounding curious.

“I really don’t know,” Charles says, offering more truth. “I’ve never known anything different.”

He likes having the limited access to his powers since they adjusted his chip. He thinks he would miss them now if they were taken away. Charles has to admit that to himself. He feels comfortable with them, the way he can walk into a room and get a sense of it. Since he’s been around people who know how to shield, he has missed that steady sense he’s gotten used to.

“It’s easy,” Erik says. “It won’t take long. But it will hurt.”

Charles stares at the small fire and rolls Erik’s offer around in his head a little longer, weighing it a bit further but not much. There are a lot of good reasons to say yes. It will help Erik trust him, help him find the terrorist. And he’s curious. After seeing the extent of Erik’s powers, Charles is curious what he himself would look like. He glances back at Erik, his decision made.

“Okay,” Charles says, taking a deep breath, knowing there is no turning back. “Take it out.”

“Okay,” Erik says. “When you’re done cleaning me up.”

Charles finally finishes wiping away the last of the crusted blood and then he carefully cleans Erik’s wounds, watching as Erik flinches briefly at his touch, no longer able to keep from reacting to the pain. The wounds are clean and deep, carefully administered, and again Charles wonders about Shaw. He can’t shake the feeling that something is off. The wounds look painful and they should hurt more than Erik appears to be hurting, but then Charles realizes that he’s not administering to someone who is unused to pain or injury. Erik has lived his entire life on the inside of a war. He surely has been injured. The light scars on his forearms and the one ragged one on his face speak to this. Charles fights back the urge to run his fingertips along that zig-zagging scar, to feel the raised ridge of white scar tissue that runs down Erik’s cheek. When Charles is done he stands up and returns to the bucket, dipping his cloth into it, the leftover water tinged pink with Erik’s blood. He wrings it out and lays the cloth across his pack to dry. He might need it later. He can feel Erik’s eyes follow him as he moves back to the fire and goes to settle in front of Erik, tipping his head forward to expose the back of his neck to the other man. Charles hears Erik’s sharp intake of breath and for a moment neither of them move. Charles feels the other man’s fingers trail lightly down the back of his neck, settling on his exposed nape, pressing right where his chip is implanted, rubbing his implantation scar lightly with calloused fingers. Charles takes in a deep, shuddering breath, and the entire world compresses down to that contact point.

“You’re beautiful,” Erik says, so quietly Charles isn’t actually sure if he heard him. It’s entirely unexpected to hear this from this man who seems so distant and Charles can't stop the thrill that runs through him. Erik's fingers rest on Charles’ skin and Charles’ eyes flutter shut. It feels good to feel like this, to have the mild electricity of attraction running across his skin. He allows a small smile to creep onto his lips, and if it had been anyone else, any other situation, there would be no way Charles would have been able to resist turning himself around and....

“So are you,” Charles says, staring down to the dirt floor, his head still bent, his voice just as quiet. More truth. He’s the most beautiful man Charles has ever seen, and Shaw’s words ring in his head.

_Never forget it’s only a game._

Erik's fingers leave his skin and Charles shivers at the loss of contact. Charles hears the bag of metal bearings move, lifting off the floor and levitating towards Erik. He turns his head and watches as Erik unties the bag and the bearings float out into the air, this time not swirling in complex patterns but just floating together, joining into one mass of metal that Erik reaches out and takes into his large palm, closing it in a tight fist. A moment later he opens it and reveals a sharp, surgical looking blade. Charles turns his gaze back to the fire. He knows what happens next.

“It’s going to hurt now,” Erik says, and Charles feels the warmth of the metal on the back of his neck. He takes in a deep breath and then it presses into his skin, slicing and there is sudden, shooting pain. Charles takes in another deep breath, his stomach heaving, and wills his body to ignore the pain signals his nerves are speeding towards his brain. He feels a sharp chill as Erik cuts into his flesh. It takes almost no time, almost less than a minute and Erik is reaching around with a clenched fist. Charles looks down at it just as Erik opens his fingers and in his palm is a small, bloody microchip. Such a small piece of technology. Charles is no longer chipped. He swallows, biting back a sudden surge of fear and turns to face Erik. Charles reaches around to feel the back of his neck and it’s warm and sticky. He brings his hand back around and it’s red with his own blood. Erik stands and goes Charles’ pack then returns with the wet cloth.

“This should work,” Erik says, putting a hand on Charles’ shoulder and turning him to face away, his other hand coming up to gently wipe at the back of Charles’ neck. “There will be a bit of a scar. There always is.”

Not that there wasn’t one before. Erik finishes cleaning the area then he turns Charles again to face him. His hand is still heavy on the nape of Charles’ neck. Charles stares up at Erik, stares into those eyes, and suddenly he wants in a way that twists hot in his gut. Before he can think about what he’s doing, Charles reaches up a hand and slides his fingertips along Erik’s jaw. He watches as the other man tenses a little and their gazes lock together, neither wavering, and Charles sees what can only be fear in Erik’s eyes.

“Why are you here, Charles?” Erik says quietly. “Why can’t I shake the feeling that this is a game for you, some type of diversion?”

The truth seems to be leaking out from all directions as they sit in the dark, in this abandoned house, Charles’ fingers on Erik’s skin, and he realizes he’s trembling.

“Many things are a game for me, Erik,” Charles says, making his voice low and intimate, working hard to keep it steady. He licks his lips a little and Erik’s eyes go to his mouth, and Charles continues to walk right along the edge with this man. “But not this. I wanted you when I first saw you. I didn’t want you to be in the hands of those who would destroy you. You are not a game for me. Far from it.”

They stare at each other and the fire crackles in the silence of the room. Something in Erik’s face softens.

“Okay,” Erik whispers softly.

They stay like that for a long time, until Charles looks away, no longer able to look at Erik, and he mumbles something about needing sleep and breaks contact, trying to ignore the way his hands are trembling.

"Your powers should be fully restored by morning," Erik says flatly to Charles’ back as he crouches by his pack. Charles does not look at him. He can't. The truth still lingers in the air and he's afraid if Erik looks at him now he will see it.

"We should get some sleep," Charles says, going to where his bedroll lies propped next to his pack, "we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."

Charles sleeps in fits and starts, waking more often than he would like. Maybe it's the situation, being on the run, not knowing their destination. Maybe it's his powers returning, leaving him feeling unsettled and restless. Maybe it's that feeling that’s started to build somewhere in his chest, an ache that he knows can only be eased in one manner, and that complicates things. No matter, he finds himself waking as the darkness outside again shifts to gray, and he goes to crouch by the still warm hearth, staring over at Erik as he sleeps. His face looks oddly relaxed, and Charles envies that Erik appears to have the ability to sleep anywhere. It must be from years of being on the run. Erik’s life has been far from the comfort Charles has experienced, even post Burning Day. Even when the world had gone dark and ugly, he and Sharon still had Westchester. They still had the money from his dad. They could still afford to buy dung bricks to burn, could still buy food. Charles wonders how much time Erik has spent hungry, how many times he has slept on the ground, or slept sitting up. What is his life like? He would ask, but that would be too close. Too personal. It’s a game. Just a game.

Eriks stirs a little, mumbling something in his sleep and Charles turns his eyes away, afraid the other man will wake to find him staring at him. That would be unfortunate. Erik turns onto his side and mumbles a little more. Suddenly Charles gets a flash of something that’s not his own thoughts. An image. Candles flickering in the darkness and a woman. Her head is covered with a hood a first, then she turns to face Charles and he recognizes her. Those eyes. Cold, pale blue, like the deep ice of the glaciers that used to cover the far north. She reaches to him, strokes his face softly.

_Mein süßer Junge._

Charles feels love. Overwhelming love like he’s never felt in his entire life. Then Erik shifts again, his eyes fluttering open a bit, and the image and feelings slip away, leaving Charles breathless. It seems his telepathy is restored and he’s guessing, since there aren’t people for miles around, he just accessed one of Erik’s memories that he was never intended to see. A dream. His mother. Edie Lehnsherr, terrorist.

Erik gets ready in silence, not looking towards Charles, and soon their packs are strapped to their saddles and they are back on the road. They ride further into the wilderness, this time not going as fast, the horses making their way down a narrow, muddy trail. Charles is grateful for the isolation. His head is not filled with the voices that he suspects civilization will bring. It’s silent, at least for now. It’s also one of those rare dry days, and Charles always has this small hope that one day might turn to two, then three, and maybe the world has a small chance of drying out. The gray clouds lurk above, telling him differently, growing fuller and darker as the day goes on, and he knows it’s only a matter of time before the rain returns.

They stop to eat, downing dry nourishment bars and drinking treated water from the canteens Charles had brought along. That’s when he hears it.

Hearing isn’t the right word, but Charles actually doesn’t have words for what’s happening to him. It’s more like senses it. Or feels it. Voices echoing in his head, more than one. He stops eating, staring out into nothing, and Erik looks at him curiously. Charles remembers those brief days before he was chipped, how he had started to be able to sort out the voices, so he tries this, and despite it being twenty years, it works.

“What is it?” Erik asks as he takes another bite of his nourishment bar then makes a face. If Charles wasn’t so preoccupied, he might laugh at the other man. They are truly disgusting, but they serve a purpose.

“I think…” Charles says slowly, still picking out the voices. “I think we’re not alone.”

This is enough to spur Erik to action. He takes the bag of bearing from where it hangs off his belt, opens it and quickly forms them into a sword that hovers in the air. Erik’s eyes grow sharp as he scans the woods that surround them, the same never-ending gray trees towering towards the never-ending gray sky, the two blending together. Charles scans the trees around them, his eyes looking for movement. His head starts to crowd with thoughts.

_Fucking cold out here._

_At least we finally get some action. This has got to be the most boring assignment._

_Why would Charles do this? Why would he aid a known terrorist?_

Armando. Charles squeezes his eyes shut. Oh god, his friend is out there and now he might have to....hurt him. Even kill him. Is maintaining his cover worth this?

Charles backs up slowly, step by step until he and Erik are standing back to back, each of them facing the opposite way, both with their swords out. The horses stir, restless from tension in the air. Charles hears the crack of a foot on a twig, a rustle from his right, and then there is a loud yell. Government officers materialize from the dark woods that surround them, running towards them, and Charles sees they are holding what appear to be spears above their heads. He feels Erik tense against him, and he knows the metal-kinetic is attempting to use his mutation, but nothing is happening. Charles fights the panic that wells up, threatening to choke him, and he realizes that the spears the men running towards him are holding are not metal. They are wood.

Shaw. He would know metal is useless. As are guns. But a sharpened wooden spear can be driven through someone, cracking ribs, ripping through flesh and if you get the right angle, pierce the heart. Charles swallows hard, and he knows that if the officers reach the two of them, they are both going to die.

What happens next is something that Charles doesn’t even understand. He’s only had his full powers back less than a matter of hours, yet something tells him that he can stop this. In an almost blind panic, Charles pushes out, and it’s not like pushing out into someone’s mind. It’s a blow, a violent psychic shove, and he doesn’t even know HOW he knows to do this. Yet he does it, and the officers who are running towards them are suddenly falling, all at once. They sprawl out on the ground, and Charles reels back his mind in shock. Then he realizes what he’s done, and that Erik is looking at him with an expression of awe on his face, and this is the chance he’s been waiting for. He pushes out one more time, this time able to control it better, and he quickly touches the writhing minds of the men on the ground.

“The horses!” Erik yells, grabbing his pack off the ground. Charles shakes off his daze and follows suit, quickly tying his pack to his horse’s saddle and throwing himself into the saddle. With a yell, they ride, galloping through the forest, the trees grabbing at them, not quite sure where they’re going, until they have a good amount of distance between them and the officers that Charles had left on the ground. Finally Erik slows his horse and the both come to a halt.

“That,” Erik gasps, “was amazing. You were amazing. They would have killed us.”

Charles nods, unable to say anything. He’s shaking, adrenaline still rushing through his system.

“You took them all out.”

 

**III**

 

The bodies of the men from Paradise Station lay on the ground, still and lifeless. Then one by one they start to move, rolling over, groaning, and Armando presses his hands to his temples to still the headache he has. He feels something warm trickling from his nose and swipes at it with the back of his hand. His hand comes back with blood on it. Armando smiles and thinks that maybe Charles isn’t aiding a known terrorist after all.

 

**IV**

 

They dare build a fire that night, despite having to camp in the open. They sit next to each other, pressed together despite the night not being terribly cold. Charles is nibbling on one of those awful bars, wishing for some of the half decent food he could get at Westchester.

“They would have killed me,” Erik says into the stillness. Like all nights, it’s strangely silent, only punctuated by the occasional snap from the fire. Charles turns his head and looks at Erik.

“I told you that you can trust me,” Charles says quietly, his eyes tracing Erik’s profile. Erik doesn’t answer. He just stares into the fire, watching the flames dance, leaving Charles free to take in his face. It’s hard and so strong, and Charles is once again struck by the fact that he wants to know more about this man. He shakes his head a little and banishes the thought.

“Have you ever seen flowers?” Erik asks, glancing over at Charles. Charles huffs out a little breath. What kind of question is that? No one has seen flowers. They’re all gone.

“A long time ago,” Charles says, “my mother used to have a garden, and I remember playing in it. I think I remember the roses, the way they smelled. But that’s all. It’s been twenty years.”

Twenty years since Edie Lehnsherr unleashed her wrath on the world. Charles doesn’t say this. Twenty years since grass and flowers and sunshine.

“I’ll take you to the flowers,” Erik says softly. Charles holds back the laugh that bubbles up, because how can Erik take him to the flowers? There are no flowers anymore. They’re all gone.

“Why?” Charles asks.

“Because you saved my life today.”

Erik reaches a hand out and touches Charles’ lightly. Charles flinches but he doesn’t pull away. The man who has just promised him the impossible traces a light pattern on his skin. Charles closes his eyes. He’s getting in too deep.

They sleep on the ground and Charles rises before the sun, leaving Erik curled in his sleeping roll on the ground. He makes his way quickly to the base of the hill they’re camped on and he puts his fingers to his mouth and whistles, short and loud, hoping he doesn’t wake Erik. He scans the trees around him and then Shaw materializes from between two of them.

“Nicely done, Xavier,” Shaw says, “has he told you where House of M is located?”

Charles shakes his head.

“No,” he tells Shaw, “but he’s promised to take me to the flowers.” Shaw frowns a little at this.

“Be careful, Xavier,” Shaw whispers in the morning light. “Erik Lehnsherr, he can be convincing. Never forget that he’s a killer. Never forget it’s a lie.”

Charles shrugs. “No worries, Commander Shaw,” Charles says with confidence, “It’s just a game, right? Just like you said.”

Just a game.

They part ways and Shaw tells Charles that he’s sent his men home, but he’ll still be following behind them.

Erik is awake when Charles returns and he glances up but doesn’t ask where he’s been. He’s rolling up his bed roll and securing it to his saddle. Charles does the same thing, and grabs some food from one of his bags, then swings himself onto his horse, not saying a word to the other man. He gives his horse a nudge with his heel and they ride.

This time Erik takes the lead and he seems to know where he’s going. They start to climb towards the towering deep blue peaks that line the wilderness, going further and further away from civilization. Towards the flowers, according to Erik. Up to the gray sky, from what Charles can tell. After riding all day, they crest a hill, the horses’ hooves slipping on loose stone, and what lies before them takes Charles breath away.

Flowers. Erik wasn’t lying. There are flowers. A whole field of them, as far as the eye can see. They are white, on long, delicate stems, almost floating against the bleak landscape.

“Erik!” Charles gasps, gazing at the other man.

“I told you I would take you to the flowers,” Erik says softly. He dismounts then walks over to stand next to Charles’ horse and holds his hand out. Charles knows what will happen if he takes it, he knows this is all a game. That it’s not real. Still, he reaches down and allows Erik to help him off his horse. Erik looks down at him, then he reaches to cradle Charles’ face in his hands and Charles does not flinch away from his touch. He welcomes it.

“Thank you,” Erik says quietly, and a gust of wind rushes down from the peaks that tower above them, making all the flowers wave in the breeze. “You saved me. Twice.”

The scent of the flowers is something Charles can’t describe adequately with words. He wants to say they smell like the roses in his mother's garden, but that scent is just a memory, and these are real. Real flowers, like no one has ever seen, standing as high as his waist, small white tufts dancing in the breeze. Charles puts his hands out and feels them tickle against his palms.

“How?” he asks, turning to Erik, who has been watching him as he walks further into the meadow.

“No one knows,” Erik answers. “Somehow they survive with little sun, survived the black rain, survived everything. They are beautiful yet so strong. Stronger than anything I’ve ever known.”

Charles sees a strange sadness as Erik speaks, and if he didn’t know who this man was, where he came from, he might call it regret.

“I would have liked to have laid these on my mother’s grave,” Erik continues, staring off into the distance. He doesn’t say anything else, but Charles knows what else he would say. If his mother had a grave. Edie Lehnsherr’s body was recovered, dragged out of the dilapidated cabin she’d been holed up in. It was cremated and dumped into the sea, no one wanting to give the world a place that anyone could turn into a shrine to her cause. Charles remembers feeling a sense of satisfaction when he learned of her ultimate fate. That was before he stood in front of her son who is looking back at him with the sadness of the world in his eyes.

“She was a strong woman,” Charles says. It’s the closest to the truth Charles can get, and it’s the first time that either of them have acknowledged one of the realities that hang in the space between them. Erik has never once said and Charles has never once asked what they both know. Erik is Edie Lehnsherr’s son. Charles knows that Edie Lehnsherr, by any definition, was a strong woman. Even if she wreaked havoc on the world in the name of her cause, that was not something a weak woman does. Even when Charles was seven, watching her on television, he could see that she had a core of unbendable steel.

“She was,” Erik says quietly, still lost in thought.

“I saw her once,” Charles says, remembering the woman on the screen, then he remembers the boy. “I saw you too.”

Erik huffs out a little laugh and turns to look at Charles. “The video?” he says, his face becoming carefully guarded. “Everyone saw the video.”

Charles has never thought about what it was like for Erik, a scared boy huddling against his mother, a mother utterly devoted to a cause. He never thought about what it might have been for Erik to live like that. On the run, scared that the end of everything might be around the corner. There was no way it could have made for a normal life, at least what Charles would call normal. And then she died, and it was because he wasn’t there. For the first time Charles stops seeing Edie Lehnsherr through the eyes of the world, a radical ready to die for her cause. He sees her through the eyes of a son who has lost his mother.

“Not the video,” Charles says suddenly, pulling up another memory, “I mean, I did see that. It was everywhere. I saw something else. She was lighting candles and she touched your face, and she…”

Charles’ voice trails off and Erik’s face shifts from guarded to full of pain, and it makes Charles’ breath hitch as he feels that pain wash over him, and he realizes that Erik isn’t shielding himself. He’s wide open, vulnerable and so sad that it brings tears to Charles’ eyes. Charles remembers the love he’d felt at that moment: the love Erik has for his mother. The one he can never visit, who has no grave and no resting place. His heart contracts, and for a brief moment he feels anger at what the world took from this man. Edie Lehnsherr was a monster on so many levels. She was a radical, but she was also loved, and now her son was left with nothing. A field of flowers he would never be able to lay on her grave.

“You looked in my head?” Erik says in a tense, clipped tone.

“No,” Charles says quickly, “it was a dream I think. You were asleep and I just saw it. Your mother.”

“Oh,” Erik says softly, sounding a little relieved. “I shield myself, you know.”

“I figured that out,” Charles says, “but not your dreams. At least not that one.”

“No,” Erik says softly. “Not that one.”

“I’m sorry,” Charles says. It’s an apology, but he’s not sure what for. For unintentionally intruding on that memory. For what happened to Erik’s mother. For the pain this man lives with.

“She went without me,” Erik says. “I sent a message, told her to wait, that I would get to her, but she was up here and I was with some of our people in the city, and she said if she waited they would get us both. There just wasn’t time. I didn’t even know where she was. I found out that she died...oh God, I found out from the radio.”

Erik’s eyes are shining with tears. Charles doesn’t say anything, just stands among the flowers watching Erik’s face, his mouth pinched tight. He wipes at his eyes then glances around. “I just wish I could have taken her some flowers.”

For the first time nothing feels straightforward to Charles. Up until this moment, he was clear about what he was doing. He was going to bring down the terrorists, destroy House of M, but now he sits watching the pain of a son who has lost his mother and he feels like nothing is simple.

“I know the world hates her,” Erik says softly, “but she was fighting for me. For her son. And for you, Charles.” Erik glances his way, “For all people who are different. She told me about the camps. The torture. She told me she felt she had no choice, that she must make the world see what they’d done to her people. And then they killed her, and I just...I just wish I’d been able to say goodbye. I always knew I’d lose her to the cause, but I never got to say goodbye.”

Charles takes a few steps so he is closer to Erik and he reaches out to touch Erik’s face, his fingers finding the trail of a tear that’s managed to escape down his cheek, and he traces it, following its trail, fingertips skating down the jagged scar, ending on the edge of Erik’s jaw.

“I’m sorry,” Charles says again, and suddenly this isn’t a game. It’s real. Maybe it’s his telepathy, maybe it’s that Erik isn’t shielding himself as strongly, maybe it’s something else entirely, but Charles aches for this man. He aches for his pain, for his loss, for the fact that he lived a life expecting his mother to die. For all her faults, Sharon is still alive, still sitting in Westchester, not like Edie, who is nowhere.

“Charles,” Erik gasps, “don’t. I can’t…”

Erik doesn’t finish his sentence. Instead he closes his eyes and takes in a deep, shaking breath, and Charles realizes that this is a man who has not been allowed to mourn, and suddenly he’s struck by the fact that he wants to do whatever it takes to ease his pain.

“Kiss me,” Charles whispers, stepping closer. He can’t change anything about the world, he can’t make Edie different, he can’t take away the fact that she left and Erik will have to live with the fact that he wasn’t there to protect her for the rest of his life. But he can offer this. Himself. He can take Erik’s pain for just a little while. Erik stares at him for what feels like forever, just stares, and Charles feels so tightly wound that he might snap, and then Erik leans forward, closer, then he dips his head and touches his lips to Charles’.

Charles has kissed a reasonable amount of people, but for the first time the touch of someone’s lips on his feels like it might break him. Erik’s lips gently brush his, and the touch is so full of sorrow that it almost hurts. This isn’t a sloppy kiss after a night of drinking, it’s not a desperate kiss shoved against the alley wall outside a gay bar. It’s absolution as Charles presses firmly back against Erik’s lips and tells him without words that he can let go of some of his pain. At least for right now. The kiss isn’t much more that that before Erik pulls back and looks at Charles, and Charles closes his eyes and parts his lips, and he whispers to Erik.

“Please.”

Because for some reason he needs this just as much, and he can't think about that too much. Charles moves closer and reaches up to wrap his arms around Erik’s neck, his fingers tangling in his hair, and he pulls the other man down. Closer, and their lips meet again, but this time Charles opens his mouth, licks at Erik’s lips, coaxing them open, and slowly, so very slowly, he swipes his tongue across Erik’s, coaxing his mouth open, opening his own and kissing the other man deeply. He’s rewarded with a groan and Erik’s arms, that have been clenched at his side until this point, come up to wrap around Charles’ back and pull him even closer.

The wind gusts again. The flowers rustle around them, and Charles’ nose is filled with their scent. He savors the way Erik tastes, the strength of his fingers gripping Charles’ back, and Charles groans against Erik’s mouth. He pulls back for a microsecond, long enough to take in a deep shaking breath, then their mouths meet again, their desperation building slowly, and Charles knows where this is leading, and he knows it’s the worst thing he can do, and Shaw had warned him, but he doesn’t...he just doesn’t care. Not when Erik is almost sobbing his name against his lips in between kisses. Nothing else seems like it matters.

Charles is still unused to his telepathy being a full-power, so he almost misses the tickle in the back of his mind because his head is full of Erik. It's a small nagging feeling that starts to grow louder, and suddenly Charles’ whole body is infused with danger. He jerks back from Erik, who looks at him, startled, his eyes unfocused and aroused, and Charles wishes he had longer to appreciate the beauty of this man, but not now. Something is wrong. Someone is coming. More than one person. Charles can hear them, their thoughts. His hand goes to his sword and he looks at Erik, who lifts his hands and suddenly the bag of metal bearings comes flying out of his pack that is only mere yards away.

They are not alone.

"Stay close," Erik says in a low voice and Charles remembers that this man is no stranger to fighting. The flowers rustle and Charles sees the uniforms of government soldiers flashing as they run through them from all directions, crushing their delicate beauty under their heavy standard issue boots. They are holding the same wooden spears the men from Paradise were armed with when they attacked them earlier, and Charles knows that Erik will not be able to stop them with his powers.

"Fuck," Erik mutters from next to him. No kidding.

Charles holds out his sword and his eyes sweep across the meadow, looking for a way out, but there are men in every direction. There is no escape.

The officer closest to them reaches Charles who swings out his sword and blocks the man's spear as it swings down towards him. They hit each other with a dull thud and they stand there, not moving, and Charles muscles are trembling with strain.

"Paradise Station," Charles hisses as the man struggles against his sword. "Officer Xavier. I'm undercover."

The other man blinks briefly, and for a brief moment Charles thinks he's home free. He won’t try to kill a colleague. Then the man bares his teeth and growls, lunging forward, and Charles realizes he is going to have to kill this man. There is no other option and Charles feels a strong wave of nausea well up. He's frozen, unable to fight back, staring at the anger in the officer's eyes, what he would call blood lust.

Just then the man flies backwards and Charles sees blood spatter out from the back of his head, and Erik growls from behind him. The officer's body crashes to the ground and Charles sees a perfect round hole in his forehead, a trickle of blood seeping from it. The metal bearings. Metal-kinetic.

"Thank you," Charles says, his mouth dry. The entire world has compressed down to him and Erik. Moments ago Charles had the law on his side, his righteousness, and now all he has is a scarred mutant terrorist, a sword, and a bag of metal between him and certain death. A chill runs through his body. He’d told Erik he wasn’t playing a game, but now he knows he really isn’t. He will die for this man, even if he doesn’t want to.

The men keep coming, spears raised, whispering through the flowers, like a deadly wind blowing them, and Charles can hear his heart pounding. They are going to die. This is the end. He will never return to the godforsaken hole that Paradise is. He’ll never see Westchester or Sharon. But he will have a grave. At least he’ll have that. And maybe someone will lay flowers on it. He closes his eyes, holds his sword steady, waits for the blow, the sick crunch of bone and flesh. Waits.

There is a loud boom. It echoes off the mountains above them and Charles is tossed backwards, colliding into Erik’s chest and the both of them tumble to the ground. Charles’ ears are ringing and he thinks that maybe he’s dead. Maybe that was it and he’s lying in this field of flowers, and he’s dead. Except he can still feel. He can feel the hard ground under him, pain in his shoulder that had taken the brunt of his weight when he fell, and Erik breathing, the rise and fall of his chest, under him. He can feel Erik’s hands on his wrist, holding it tightly, his fingers squeezing so hard that he’ll probably leave marks.

They lie there for what feels like an eternity and the world around them is silent. Not even the wind whistles. Everything is still. Deadly still. Slowly Charles rolls off Erik and Erik releases his wrist. They both sit up and look around, dazed, ears still ringing. All around them the soldiers lie, twisted, broken and dead. Charles feels ill. He turns to look at Erik.

“What happened?”

“Someone helped us,” Erik says.

“Who?” Charles wonders. Who would have taken out ten or more government agents? Erik doesn’t look away from Charles but his eyes cloud over with something Charles can’t quite discern.

“I don’t know,” Erik says, his mouth pinched tightly.

“We would have died,” Charles chokes out, fighting back a sob that’s pushing up, sitting in the base of his throat.

“Charles,” Erik says softly, and now his eyes are soft.

Suddenly Charles is overwhelmed with his own need. The need to touch, to feel, to remember he’s alive. He reaches for Erik, his hands gripping the fabric of the other man’s thick wool coat, and he pulls him towards him with a strength he didn’t realize he possessed. Their mouths crash together, and this time the kiss is not about pain but about survival.

I could have died. You could have died. Erik.

The kiss is desperate, and their mouths open wide. There is not a gentle swipe of tongues, nothing tentative in the way they slot their mouths together, and it’s harsh and wet and bruising. Charles can’t get enough. He kisses Erik again and again, the force of his mouth almost knocking Erik over, then Erik meets him with equal strength and they come up on their knees, mouths still locked together, arms wrapping around each other, pulling each other close until there is no space between them and Erik feels hot against Charles.

There is no game left. Just the two of them.

They pull apart, both breathing hard, breaths hitching and Erik tips his head to rest his forehead on Charles’.

“I…” Charles pants, not entirely sure what he wants to say, or if there’s anything he can say. Erik pulls back then places a kiss on the skin by Charles eye, then another below his ear. His fingers trace the outline of Charles’ jaw then they lift Charles’ chin and Erik looks into his eyes. Charles looks back, his breathing ragged.

“You must leave me,” Eriks whispers, and his eyes are shining with tears. “Take your horse and ride back to where you came from. We can no longer be on this journey together. Not now.”

“Erik,” Charles breathes out, “No...I….”

His mission is forgotten. All is forgotten as he gazes into those pale blue eyes that regard him with something he can’t quite discern.

“You’ve done enough, Charles,” Erik says, “more than enough.”

“No.”

“Maybe we will see each other again someday.”

Erik releases Charles and Charles shivers from the loss of contact. He reaches out and touches Charles' cheek with a finger and Charles’ eyes flutter shut as he leans slightly into the soft touch.

"Beautiful," Erik says, an echo of his words in the cabin. Charles feels something twist inside as he thinks that he will never see this man again, and he wants to protest. He does not want this.

Erik's hand drops and he turns as Charles watches him. He looks at Charles one last time, that same unreadable ice blue gaze and then he digs his heels into his horse's sides, and with a yell of 'ha!' Erik gallops away, leaving Charles standing in a field of goddamn flowers. Flowers the world thinks are dead, destroyed by the woman who the man, whose back he stares at as he rides away, will never be allowed to properly mourn.

Charles stares in the direction Erik had gone for a long time, kneeling unmoving in the field of flowers. Flowers. Things were so clear when he started this, determined to gain Erik's trust, to bring down the group that had destroyed the world, but the world is not as destroyed as he thought. There are flowers that survived, beauty that grows out of the ugliness. Erik is not what Charles thought either. He is not the enemy. He grew the best he could in the environment he was born into. He's not monster, but neither was Edie. For the first time Charles sees her through Erik's eyes and hears his words.

She was fighting for me. For her son. And for you, Charles. For all people who are different.

He cannot return to Paradise. Those men, the ones who lay lifeless around him, they were not from Paradise, which means this must have been sent up the chain of command. Fucking Shaw. Surely he must have known the government would send troops from the city. Charles thinks of all of Shaw's warnings about games and wonders who is playing one now. Charles has surely been reported as an accomplice to Edie Lehnsherr's son.

There is only one way. Forward. Towards Erik.

Charles hesitates for a long moment because he knows this is the line he’s been trying not to cross. Then he crosses it, going to his horse, patting her softly on the neck then, putting a boot into the stirrup, he swings himself up into the saddle and with a yell digs his heels into her sides and steers her into the direction Erik went, urging her along, hoping at some point he will be able to catch the other man. And then...Charles doesn’t know what will happen then, but he does know that he can no longer go back. His destiny lies with the metal-kinetic.

 

**IV**

 

The trees in the mountains are different from the ones in the foothills, the ones that surround Paradise Station. As the peaks climb and the air grows thin, the trees start to grow thin and tall. They stretch thinly towards the sky, their gray-brown branches stunted, and they cluster together as if to ward off the growing chill of the air.

Little grows here. The meadow of flowers is left far behind. The ground is carpeted with pine needles, muting the sounds of the horse with the lone rider who climbs further and further towards the sky, his horse breathing hard, plodding along a trail that was probably used by people hundreds of years ago to cross over these mountains. The entire world is silent except for the occasional huff of breath from the animal, her warm breath leaving a cloud in the air.

There was a time when these trees held all sorts of living creatures: birds, squirrels, seeking shelter and nourishment in the branches. That was before so much of the world could not survive the change in climate, before the endless rain and endlessly gray sky. Now they hold men. They are crouched on the branches, clinging to the trunks, silent, not even daring to breathe very loud, and their eyes are sharp, always watching. They are waiting for the rider.

The rider is dangerous. They know that. He has killed people. He will not hesitate to kill them, so they say their prayers and think of their loved ones and grip the spears that they will use to finally end his life.

He comes into view, still plodding, going upwards, and he’s wearing a dark coat and a hood pulled over his head. He doesn’t glance around, doesn’t look for danger, and that’s his first mistake. That’s why he doesn’t notice that the trees are filled with men who want to kill him.

A crack of a branch in a tree startles the man and he looks up, and for a moment there is a flash of understanding in his eyes. He jumps off his horse and starts to run. In a flash a sword materializes in his hand, but it’s too late. The men above him fly through the trees in pursuit. The man will not escape. Not this time.

 

**V**

 

Charles’ horse is breathing hard, foamy sweat dripping from her jaw as she blazes along the trail that leads up the mountain, higher and higher. Charles clings low on her back, feeling her muscles working underneath him as he urges her on, her hooves pounding on the dirt path.

“Ha, ha!” Charles spits out. Faster, faster….

Their speed is dizzying, and as they climb, the trees start to get thinner and taller, and sometimes there’s a break in them and Charles can see for miles and miles. He scans the treeline, searching for another figure on horseback. Searching for Erik.

His head is spinning, a swirling mass of thoughts and emotions, until slowly something else starts to creep in. Other people. Their emotions washing over Charles in waves that take his breath away.

It’s not Erik. He knows that. Erik is too skillfully shielded and the feelings that pour in are uncontrolled. These thoughts are unshielded, a jumble of tension, anger, fear, all mixed together and Charles wants to pull his horse to a halt, to climb down and curl into a ball until they go away. But he can’t, because Erik is ahead and he’s sure this has something to do with him.

Up until now Charles has only encountered a handful of people with his full telepathy. This is not a handful of people. It feels like hundreds, and their thoughts come crowding into Charles’ mind, and he clings to the back of his horse, fighting for control as he’s assaulted.

_We’ll get him this time_

_Bastard._

_What if I fall?_

_Fuck, what the fuck._

_Fucking mutie scum._

Charles wants to scream but his jaw is clenched so tightly he can’t even open his mouth. Tears sting his eyes, and they race towards the voices in his head. Towards Erik.

His horse gallops into a clearing and as Charles pulls back hard on her reins, she skids to a halt and he grips her mane hard, trying not to be thrown.

Erik is in the clearing. He’s looking around, his eyes wild, and above him in the trees are hundreds of men poised with spears, seconds away from throwing them. Erik’s eyes fall on Charles and their eyes meet. For a long moment Charles feels frozen in place and he sees movement as the men above Erik pull back their arms. It’s only a matter of seconds before…

“No!”

Charles doesn’t realized he’s yelled the word out loud. He slides off his horse, leaving her panting at the edge of the clearing and he runs full-speed towards Erik, who is still looking at him. He hears the swish of the spears cutting through the air and he knows that they might die. But if they die, he wants to die together. Charles reaches Erik just as the first spear flies past him, and Charles feels it woosh past his clothes, watches as it embeds into the ground followed by same dull sound as hundreds more hit the ground around them, and Charles and Erik make a hundred answering miniscule moves, back and forth, twisting, until all the spears are embedded in the ground and they are both trapped in a strange, haphazard cage they’ve created around the two men. Charles glances over at Erik who is giving him a small smile.

They will die today.

Charles winds his hands between the wood spears as they both hear the sound of the men above them reaching to pull out more spears, and with no way to move, this time their aim will be true. Charles manages to find Erik’s fingers, grasping at them, and Erik answers with his own fumbling efforts, and then they manage to clasp their hands together and Charles runs a thumb softly across Erik’s knuckles.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Eriks says softly, his eyes shining in the dim evening light of the forest.

Charles lets out a small huff. What does it matter when he’s here already. He smiles back.

“I came back for you.”

Their eyes are locked together and Charles takes in one deep shaky breath after another, and they wait for the now familiar whistle of the spears that will finally find their target.

They hear nothing. The woods are entirely silent. Then they hear the trees rustle and the crack of branches, and suddenly the men in the trees fall out, tumbling down to the forest floor with loud thumps. Charles’ eyes grow wide and he searches the edge of the clearing, his gaze sweeping along the edge, then he sees her.

She walks towards them wearing a long black cape that swirls out behind her, the hood pulled up and obscuring her face. She stops when she reaches the two men and reaches up, pushing back her hood and Charles sees a familiar face, with that same scar running down her eye, and the same short blonde hair.

Emma Frost.

“It’s about time you made it, Lehnsherr,” she says coolly. Charles breathes a shaky sigh of relief. They are safe.

 

**VI**

 

They follow Emma for two days, further into the mountains, until they end up in an old railroad camp, great rusted out hulks of steam engines sitting on rails that might not have been used for hundreds of years. Charles looks around and thinks this place must have been abandoned long before Burning Day, and he wonders why.

Emma gives a long piercing whistle when they walk into the encampment and slowly people start to emerge from the run-down buildings that are scattered here and there. Erik watches as men, women and even children walk into the center of the encampment, and he feels a rush of emotions from the people around him in his mind - happiness, joy, gratitude.

This is House of M.

Charles blinks. He didn’t know what he’d expected. A group of hardened criminals, aflame with blood lust, no care for the rest of the world. As he watches a girl who looks to be about thirteen years old run up to Erik and throws her arms around him. Seeing the way he smiles, he realizes that this is a family. Erik turns to Charles and his face is soft and warm, and Charles sees that Erik is home.

“This,” he says, gesturing to the people around him, the buildings, “is what Edie was fighting for. They are all mutants, Charles. All free. This was her vision. We can never be free if the government forces chipping, puts us in camps, kills us.”

Free. Charles thinks about his telepathy that is filling his head with warm emotions and the occasional thought swirling around, and how comforting it feels. It’s only been a matter of days and he cringes at the thought of going back to being blank, empty.

Erik rubs the girl’s head and he reaches inside his coat and pulls out a smashed, crumpled flower he’d saved from the meadow.

“This went through a lot to get to you Kitty,” Erik says, smiling down at the girl. She smiles back.

“I’m going to go out with you soon,” she says with a big grin. “I’m getting better at phasing. I’ve been practicing every day.”

Charles feels sick.This is what he was trying to destroy? If the government found this place, they would kill all of them. There would be no mercy. His gaze sweeps over the crowd, looking at all their faces, imagining them dying at the hands of soldiers, and Charles feels tears pricks at the edges of his eyes. Then his gaze falls on one person. He knows her.

She is standing at the edge of the crowd dressed in all black, a long coat over black trousers. It’s the same face he saw long ago, but like many of the faces around him, it now has scars. She carries them with pride, her eyes hard like a warrior. Sprouting from her back are wings, delicate and gossamer, they spread out wide behind her. The last time he saw her she was being dragged away, screaming, and here she is.

“I know her,” Charles whispers, not really meaning to. “I saw them take her away.”

Erik glances towards where Charles eyes are fixed.

“Angel,” he says, “they were going to cut off her wings. Edie heard about her and we got to her before they could amputate her. She’s one of our best fighters now.”

“You saved her,” Charles says, looking at Erik.

“Yes, Charles. That’s what we do. We save mutants and bring them to live here. That is what House of M does. At least that’s what we do now. My mother got the attention of the world, but the world’s attention didn’t change anything. Were were still ‘stinking muties’, still hated. So we started building a place for all of us. Away from the humans.”

“But the explosions. The water plants.”

Erik shrugs. “Collateral damage, Charles. It’s still a war. It will be until the day mutants can live in peace. But nothing like Burning Day. Never again.”

“Erik,” Charles manages to gasp. “I...I just never knew.”

Erik huffs out a little laugh, “it’s like the world we live in, Charles. There’s a lot of gray. Nothing is what it seems.”

“Isn’t that the truth,” a voice behind them says, and both men turn to find Emma Frost standing before them. She’s still wearing her long cape and her eyes glitter, hard as ice. She glances over at Erik. “Why don’t you get cleaned up, Lehnsherr. I want to talk to your friend here.”

Erik glances at Charles briefly then nods and turns to walk away from where Charles and Emma stand. Charles watches him go, thinking about how much has changed, how different things seem, then he turns his attention back to Emma.

“Tea?” she says, and Charles quirks an eyebrow in surprise. She laughs a little, “we’re not entirely uncivilized.”

Charles nods and Emma turns to walk towards one of the small buildings. Charles walks quickly after her to catch up to her and follows her through the doorway, ducking his head. The cabin is one room and surprisingly comfortable given the rusticness of their surroundings, with pillows on the floor. A small stove sits in one corner and a fire burns in its belly. On the top is a heavy iron kettle that’s steaming away.

Emma pours a cup of tea for Charles, who ends up sitting cross legged on the pillow on the floor. He looks up at her and she hands him a chipped mug that’s warm on his hand and a floral scent rises from it. Charles takes in a deep breath and it reminds him of the meadow and the flowers and the way Erik’s lips felt against his.

“There’s something about you,” Emma starts, sipping at her own cup of tea. “Something familiar.”

Charles blinks.

“Peony Pavilion,” he says, and that day feels like a lifetime ago. So much has changed, so much has happened.

“No,” Emma muses. “Not Peony Pavilion. Something else. Something about the way you hold yourself. You say you are a businessman, a wealthy man. You took pity on Erik, but there is something more.”

There is soft knock on the door and Emma glances towards it.

“One moment,” she calls.

“I am everything you say I am,” Charles says, the hair on the back of his neck pricking with danger.

“No,” Emma muses, “I do not think you are, Charles Xavier.”

Charles blinks.

“I think you are someone entirely different.” Emma glances at the door and Charles holds the mug, still warm in his hands, but does not drink. “Bring him in.”

The door flies open and two men enter, dragging a third between them. Whoever it is, his head is covered by a sack and it hangs down. Charles sees that the man being dragged in is wearing a government uniform and he goes cold. He glances up and sees that Erik is behind the men in the doorway. His face is stone, his mouth a thin line and his eyes are cold.

Emma stands up and walks to the man and pulls off his hood. The man lifts his head and Charles gasps.

Shaw.

Emma turns back to Charles, her eyes narrowed.

“We know everything, you government pig,” Emma hisses, but Charles doesn’t hear her. He’s still staring at Erik, who has come to stand stoically by Emma’s side, not looking at Charles but around him. The men push Shaw to the floor.

“Tie him up.” Emma hisses and Charles feels hands grab him, pulling his arms back until he winces in pain, and still Erik watches, his face impassive. Charles wants to protest, to reach out to him, to tell him that it’s not what it seems, that it might have started out as a game but it’s not that anymore. He can’t. His shoulders ache and when the men are done securing his hands, they shove him down to the ground so he’s kneeling next to Shaw, who doesn’t even glance his way. Emma walks to stand in front of them as they kneel. “Your friend told us everything. You were using Erik to find us, plotting to follow him and hurt House of M.”

Charles stares at the ground. He doesn’t move, doesn’t speak, but he wants to tell Erik that in the end it wasn’t like Emma says. He cannot.

Emma goes to stand in front of Shaw, who looks up at her and almost snarls. She nudges at him with her foot and he lets out a soft huff of breath as he falls from his knees onto his side.

“Take him outside,” Emma says, and the two men step forward, grabbing Shaw by the arm, hoisting him to his feet. The drag him back out the door and Emma follows, leaving Charles still kneeling on the floor and Erik standing across the room, staring at him.

“So,” Erik says into the silence, then his voice fades away. Charles cannot do anything but stay where he is, and his eyes focus on a small pebble on the rough wooden floor. His arms tremble from the strain of having them behind his back. He wonders what’s happening to Shaw. Where Emma has taken him. He wonders what will happen to him now that Erik knows the truth.

“It was all a lie after all,” Erik finally says. Charles does not answer.

 

**VII**

 

The figures walk into the forest, the man with his hands bound behind him, the woman in a long black cloak that swirls around her as she walks. Their footsteps are muffled on the needle covered floor. They stop and the silence around them is almost deafening, and the woman pushes the man down so he kneels, his back to her, and he stares out into the trees. The woman pulls a small dagger from inside her cape and steps towards him, the knife raised, then in one swift motion, she cuts him free.

“You’ve done a good job Sebastian,” she says as he stands, rubbing at his wrists, “Edie couldn’t have planted a better mole.”

“They will come after you, Emma,”Sebastian says, "it's inevitable."

“And we are ready,” she says, “you’ve done your job. The government will now know how strong we are.”

“Yes,” he agrees, “but there’s one thing I don’t understand.”

“Which is?”

“Why Erik? You know who he is to me, Emma. You know I haven’t seen him for three years, and then you send him of all people, and I must go through watching him flirt with that officer Xavier, all to get the government where we want them.”

“You love him,” Emma says. It’s not a question but a statement and Sebastian nods. Emma sighs heavily and runs a hand through her short blonde hair. “You of all people know there is no room for love in this fight.”

“Can I see him, Emma?”

Emma considers Sebastian for a long moment.

“Yes.”

Emma turns and walks back towards the encampment. Moments later there is the soft sound of footsteps and Sebastian turns to find Erik standing behind him, offering him a small smile.

“Erik,” Sebastian gasps, and he closes the distance between them, his hands going to cradle Erik’s face as their lips meet. Sebastian pulls back and looks into Erik’s eyes.

“It’s been three years,” Sebastian whispers, tilting his forehead to rest on the other man’s.

“A long time,” Erik says. They are both breathing hard. “Sebastian,” Erik gasps. “In the meadow, that was you who saved me.”

Sebastian squeezes his eyes shut. “Yes.”

“Thank you,” Erik whispers.

Sebastian kisses Erik’s temple. The corner of his eye. His cheek.

“I have missed you, my sweet boy,” he sighs, “so much.”

He kisses his nose, the corner of his lips.

“Sebastian,” Erik whispers. “Please….”

“Erik,” Sebastian says, pulling back to gaze at the other man, then he leans in closer, and his lips go to hover just above Erik’s and that’s when Erik turns his head.

“Please don’t.” Erik’s breath is shaky as he gulps for air. Sebastian breaks contact and his mouth grows tight. His body shudders with anger and he feels his power surge. Three years apart, and he has loved Erik longer than that, and now he pushes him away. All for that simpering pampered man from the city who has somehow captivated him. Sebastian feels his rage swell and he wants to reach out and destroy Erik, to squeeze him until there is nothing left. He clenches his hands, fisting them into Erik’s wool coat.

“Do you love him?” Sebastian asks, shaking. Erik doesn’t answer. He just looks at Sebastian. Sebastian leans in again and presses his cheek to Erik’s temple. “There is no future for you two,” he whispers, and he feels Erik jerk a little. “You are mine.”

Sebastian reaches his arms around Erik, pulling him closer and the other man’s hands come up to push at Sebastian’s chest.

“No, Sebastian,” Erik says. Sebastian pulls tighter, pressing his lips on Erik’s temple, ignoring the way the the other man struggles to pull away. Just then Sebastian jerks and pain blooms through his left shoulder. He lets Erik go, reaching behind to feel the dagger that Emma had freed him with embedded in his back.

“Shaw,” Emma hisses from behind him, “Enough. You will return to Paradise, my knife in your back. Stay under cover. You are more use to use there.”

Her gaze falls to Erik. “Lehnsherr,” she says in a clipped tone. “Go back to the cabin, take Xavier out and kill him. He’s no longer of any use to us.”

Sebastian hears Erik’s sharp intake of breath. The pain in his shoulder spreads, Sebastian clenches his jaw. He’s had wounds like this before, but despite his pain, he smiles. It’s a small cruel smile, because in this game nobody wins.

 

**VIII**

 

Erik returns to the cabin. Charles has not moved from where he was kneeling before, and the two men in the room have been watching him carefully, so he knows he has no chance of escape. Even if he could try to use his telepathy, he’s surrounded by full-mutants who would end his life in seconds. His eyes are still cast downward and his knees are hurting from kneeling so long on the ground. He knows it’s Erik before he speaks. He knows how the other man breathes, the sound of his step as he enters the room, and his heart clenches at this knowledge. To know someone so well in such a short time hurts in a way Charles has never experienced.

“Out,” Erik growls at the two men, and for a brief moment Charles feels a swell of hope in his breast, and maybe Erik is sending them away because he’s going to free Charles. That hope dies when Erik grabs him by his coat and hauls him roughly to his feet. Charles grimaces in protest as his muscles hurt from moving suddenly after being still for so long, but he does not cry out and he does not turn to look at his captor.

“This way,” Erik grunts, pushing Charles through the cabin door, and Charles stumbles a little, his boots sticking in the deep mud, but he does not fall. He will not fall. He feels eyes on him as people gathered around the edges of the encampment stare. Erik pushes him a little and they stumble forward, past the people, towards the trees. They keep walking, Charles making his way over roots and rocks, Erik silent behind him, urging him on, and after about ten minutes, they reach a small clearing.

“Stop,” Erik says, his voice flat. Charles stops but does not turn. He looks out across the clearing, watching as the trees sway in a light wind, and he feels rain on his face. Charles looks up at the heavy, gray sky just as Erik kicks him in the back of the legs and he falls to his knees.

“I was trying to save you. I left you in order to save your life, and you followed me,” Erik says in a low voice tinged with pain.

Charles squeezes his eyes shut. There is nothing he can say in response.

“You would do the same to me, Charles," Erik continues, "You would have me on knees. You wouldn’t let me go.”

Now Charles finds his voice. He feels a swell of emotions as he speaks, and there is a lump lodged in his throat.

“You are right, Erik,” Charles says softly, opening his eyes to stare at nothing in particular, fixing them on one of the trees at the edge of the clearing, the peaks on the distance where he can see the last of the snow. This world, so vastly different from what it used to be, has its own type of desolate beauty, and as Charles kneels waiting for his final breath, that strange beauty overwhelms him. He swallows and Charles knows the only thing he has left is the truth. He gives it to Erik, a final real moment between them. “If I were you, I would never let you go.”

He hears a sharp intake of breath from Erik.

Charles swallows and the man standing behind him is silent. Charles hears the whistle of a sword swinging through the air and he braces himself for the strike of the weapon, and in that moment he wonders if Erik will slice him through the neck,or stab him through the heart. How will he die?

Charles startles as feels the ropes that bind his wrists sliced away and he lets out a huge breath of relief. His arms fall to his sides, and a sharp ache courses through them, and he lurches forward, almost too surprised to catch his fall, but he is stopped by strong arms coming around him and Erik is on his knees behind him, his face dipped down to bury itself in the nape of Charles' neck and he's whispering Charles' name over and over.

Charles lets out a long deep shiver, a combination of relief and desire, and he leans back against Erik, letting the other man take his body weight, and tipping his head back to rest against Erik's shoulder he lets out a long shuddering sigh.

"My love," Charles whispers, tears leaking from the edges of his eyes. He chokes back the sob that is lodged in his throat, pushes down the impossibility of it all.

Erik moves from where he has been breathing against the nape of Charles' neck and Charles' skin prickles at the loss of heat. Then he feels the soft press of lips against the side of his neck and he shudders, leaning even harder against Erik, feeling his warmth burning against him. Erik presses a kiss just below his ear and is rewarded with a sharp intake of breath.

Everything about this moment seems absurd. Erik's arms around him. The warm press of his body. The ragged rise and fall of his chest, the strong arms wrapped around Charles and his slim fingers that are absently stroking circles against Charles' coat, seeking and wanting more. Most absurd is the fact that Charles knows he loves this man. This scarred and broken man. This terrorist, enemy of the state.

The touch of Erik's lips below his ear is too much and Charles turns his head, seeking, wanting, and he's met by Erik's lips on his, and their mouths slot together in a kiss that is slow and sensuous, mouths opening immediately, tongues tangling together. It is awkward and sloppy, Charles' neck tilted at an uncomfortable angle, but it is so good. So right. Charles trembles as slowly he starts to break.

In a sudden shift everything becomes unbearable, and Charles wants more with an undeniable urgency. More heat, more hands, more of everything. He pulls back from Erik, ending the kiss, listening as Erik pants softly, then Charles turns in his arms until both men are facing each other, eyes locked together, kneeling on the soggy ground, their hair damp from the earlier drizzle, both their eyes wet with tears.

That's when Charles realizes that it's not raining, and he smiles because it's a gift. A small gift, and seeing this smile Erik smiles back, a small, sweet smile, and that is the moment when Charles falls apart.

Their mouths crash together.

There is nothing fair about this. There is no hope for the future as the kneel before each other, kissing with desperation, hands shaking as they push off heavy wool coats, fumble with buttons and zips, until they are half naked in the cold mountain air.

Charles does not feel the chill. All he can do is stare at the bare chest of the man before him, eyes taking in various scars, and he wonders once again what Erik's life has been like up until now. He wants to know, wants long evenings curled together with the warmth of blankets wrapped around them. He wants time for his fingers to trace the planes and curves of this man, wants to be able to hear his stories. He will have none of this.

Charles leans forward and latches his mouth onto one of Erik's nipples, sucking and nipping at the hard pebble with his teeth and Erik's hands go to Charles' shoulders, bracing himself as he tilts his head to the sky.

Erik is surprisingly quiet as he writhes under Charles' mouth, hands tightly gripping his shoulders, and it occurs to Charles that this is a man who has led a life where he has had to learn to stay quiet or die. A life of hiding. A life that does not lend itself to love of any normal sort. He licks his way across Erik’s chest, leaving a wet trail and his mouth finds his other nipple waiting, and when he gives it the same treatment he’s rewarded with a small gasp. Charles smiles a little then continues to lave the bud with his tongue.

Charles pulls off then kisses his way back up Erik’s chest until their mouths find each other again. They kiss and kiss while their hands search blindly for buttons, snaps, and Charles wants more of Erik. More skin, more of everything. He finally breaks away from Erik and Erik lunges forward with a small whine of protest until he sees that Charles is pulling off his boots and working his pants down his hips, and Erik follows suit. Then they are naked before each other, both of them panting and flushed. Charles allows his eyes to roam up and down Erik’s body. His broad chest, narrow hips, half-hard cock nestled in dark curls of pubic hair, strong thighs from years of being on horseback. He looks hard, wiry and utterly breathtaking.

“You,” Charles says breathily, not meaning to sound quite to wrecked. “You are just….”

Too much. Too beautiful. Everything.

Charles can’t finish the sentence because Erik is leaning forward again, his lips chasing after Charles’, a hand coming up to press gently on the center of Charles’ chest and slowly, slowly he topples Charles backwards as he climbs on top of him. Charles feels the cold ground along his back, and if it was any other circumstance, he might stop and ask if they could get something under him, but as Erik presses his length along Charles, his skin hot, his cock heavy on Charles’ thigh, his mouth going to press a kiss in the crook of Charles’ neck, everything else but how good this feels fades into the background.

They kiss more, and Charles slides his hands up and down Erik’s sides, skimming his fingers across his ribs, then he slides them around Erik’s back and pulls the other man closer, wanting to feel his entire weight on him, wanting to feel crushed by him until his breath hitches under his heaviness. Erik’s lips leave his and he tilts his head to look down at Charles who lies panting beneath him and Charles hears a whine emerge from his own lips that he didn’t entirely intend.

“Please.”

“Have you ever…” Erik asks, and Charles knows what he wants to know. Yes, he has been fucked. Just never like this. Never when he wanted it so badly.

“Yes,” Charles says, spreading his legs a bit in invitation, rolling his hips up so his now hard cock presses up into Erik's belly, wanting. Erik looks at him through half-lidded eyes for a bit longer then he pushes himself up off from where he’s sprawled across Charles and Charles spreads his legs even further apart to allow Erik to squat between them on his heels. Erik gazes down at Charles’ cock, which is hard and leaking, with borderline reverence, and then he licks his lips. Charles wants that tongue on his cock, wants the hot, wet suction of that mouth, and not for the first time he wishes everything were different. He wishes they had time, but they don’t. Erik reaches down and wraps his large hand around Charles’ cock, pulls on it a few times and Charles responds by jerking his hips upwards, then Erik swipes his thumb across the slit through the precome that’s gathered there. He releases Charles’ cock, takes that same hand, spits into it, then wraps it around his own cock and slicks it with his spit, his own precome along with Charles’. Charles watches all of this, biting his lip and almost shaking with anticipation.

Erik rocks forward onto his knees then he slides forward, pressing his chest against Charles once again, a welcome heaviness. Erik pushes himself up on his forearms so he's hovering above Charles and Charles wraps his legs around Erik’s waist, locking his ankles in the small of his back and opening himself up. He feels the welcome pressure of Erik’s cock on the sensitive muscle of his anus and Charles sucks in a deep, shuddering breath. Erik’s arms tremble on either side of his head and he hears the other man breathe in deep as well, then there is blunt pressure and a little pain and Erik slides inside Charles with one long push.

“Oh god,” Charles hisses at both the pain and pleasure of feeling so full and stretched. They both hold still and Charles tilts his head back, shuts his eyes and lets everything wash over him. He feels something on his face. Cold, sharp and when he opens his eyes, he realizes that the sky has opened up, but instead of rain, small flakes of snow fall down on them.

It should be cold, but everything about Charles feels hot and tight. After it’s been long enough for both of them to adjust, and Charles is on the edge of begging, wanting so much he can barely stand it, Erik finally moves, pulling back then with a quick jerk of hips, pounding back into Charles. There is nothing gentle about this. Maybe under other circumstances there might have been some tenderness, a slow, sweet build, but instead Erik drives into him, setting an almost desperate pace, his balls slapping obscenely against Charles’ ass and Charles’ head is pushed into the ground with the force of his thrusts. He reaches a hand down between the heat of their bodies and grabs his own cock, pulling on it, and every touch feels so good. Charles moans out Erik’s name and Erik’s rhythm becomes slightly more irregular.

Charles wants so much. He wants everything. He wants time with this man, time to get to know him, to intimately recognize every hitch of his breath, every sigh that escapes his lips. He wants to know when he gets close to unraveling, and he can’t shake the feeling that this is all they will ever have.

He clenches tightly around Erik, delighting in the groan it produces from the other man, in his own power, and Erik’s pace shifts towards even more erratic. Charles continues to fist his own cock in time with Erik’s thrusts, and he feels his abdominal muscles start to tighten and he knows he won’t hold out much longer. His toes flex and curl and the muscles of his legs shudder, and everything gets tighter and, throwing the hand that isn’t fisting his cock over his mouth, Charles squeezes his eyes shut and comes with a muffled shout, his body convulsing with his orgasm, his cock spurting hot, sticky fluid between them. He shudders and shakes with the force of it, his legs no longer able to stay wrapped around Erik, falling to the sides, his mouth going slack and his whole body feels boneless and soft.

It’s so good. So damn good that Charles wants to cry. He turns his head to the side and fights back the tears that are building up.

Erik is still fucking into him with force, and Charles hears him grunt out his name.

“Look at me,” Erik says and Charles turns his head to see the man above him looking entirely wrecked, staring down at him, eyes shining with tears. And that’s when Charles knows this is everything he has feared. This is goodbye. He manages enough strength to reach up and stroke a finger down Erik’s face.

“Let it go, my love,” Charles says, and he knows that what he says is nothing short of truth. It’s as if Charles’ words unlock something inside Erik, because he collapses forward, as if his arms can no longer hold him up, buries his face in the crook of Charles neck and with a couple short, sharp thrusts he comes with a harsh grunt. Charles wraps his arms around him and holds him as he shakes and shakes with the force of his own orgasm, and he’s letting out choked sobs, tears wetting Charles’ skin.

They are both broken.

They lie side by side in the tall grass that covers the clearing, and somehow Erik has managed pull back on his pants, and cover Charles with his wool coat. Charles stares up at the sky and watches the small flakes of snow drift lazily down, settling on his cheeks, on Erik’s hair, and he reaches out to let one land on his finger and stares at it before it melts.

He remembers snow, from before everything changed. Snow at Westchester, the whole lawn covered with it, and he had played in it all day until his fingers were numb and his cheeks were red, then the cook had made him a cup of hot chocolate and he’d warmed up by the fire in the study. It’s a distant but bright memory.

“Snow,” Charles finally says out loud, his voice alive with wonder, and he thinks this is their blessing, an almost impossible occurrence gifted from the sky.

“I’ve never seen it here,” Erik says, huffing out a small, dry laugh, “all these years and today it snows.”

Charles turns to gaze at Erik, and despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t ask, despite the fact that he knows they must part ways, he says it anyway. Because he must.

“Come with me,” Charles says, reaching to grip Erik’s hand. “Come with me and we can go somewhere away from all of this. We can build a life together. A little cabin somewhere in these mountains.”

Erik stares up at the sky.

“I cannot,” Erik says. “We would never be safe.”

Charles glances over at the other man but Erik does not look at him. He continues to stare upwards.

“Something keeps you here. Someone.”

“Yes,” Erik sighs, “it’s complicated. It’s….” His voice trails off.

“Do you love him?” Charles asks.

“No,” Erik says quietly. “I love you. It’s just that he will never let me go.”

 

**IX**

 

When Charles rides away, Erik just gazes after him. He stares as he disappears into the forest, stands watching the direction Charles rode, utterly still, just watching. The air is quiet around him, the same quiet it’s always been. The snow still falls, drifting downward, tiny flakes disappearing when they hit the wet ground.

After a long time, Erik turns back towards the compound and takes a few steps. Back towards House of M. Back towards Sebastian, who will never leave him. He stands staring in that direction now, lost in his thoughts, and he mind wanders to Charles.

Come with me.

Erik closes his eyes and he wants the impossible. He wants to be free like the wind, to wander at will, to be able to be wherever he wants. He wants Charles and everything he offers, and he can still feel the ghost of his lips, his hands on his bare skin.

Charles.

Erik opens his eyes. He knows what he must do. He goes to his horse and mounts her, running a hand quickly over her coat, murmuring as he takes her reins, then with a shout, he digs his heels and she starts galloping. Following his heart. Following Charles and leaving the only life Erik has ever known behind.

She carries him like the wind, through the forest, along the muddy path that Charles had gone down not long ago, and Erik urges her on. Faster, faster. He must find Charles, he must tell him he will go with him, that they will have that life together after all. They burst through the trees, into another clearing filled with wild grass, and the snow is still drifting down, and as Erik rides he hears the unmistakable whistling sound of a dagger flying through the air. He quickly forms a knife of his own and throws it towards the other weapon, but the other weapon shatters Erik’s creation, and that’s the moment Erik knows who threw it. Only one person has the power to throw anything with such force. The dagger continues on its trajectory until it embeds into Erik’s chest, just above his heart. Pain spreads along his nerves like fire and Erik reaches to clutch at his chest. Unable to stay in the saddle, Erik topples off his horse and down to the ground, gasping for air. He struggles to rise, hand over his heart and when he does, he sees his assailant.

Sebastian.

He is standing in the meadow staring at Erik.

“You were going to him,” Sebastian says as Erik gasps, staring at the man who claims to love him, and the familiar metallic taste of blood floods his mouth. That’s when Erik knows he is dying.

_Mother, I will see you soon._

“You are the love of my life,” Sebastian says, his jaw clenched tight, his eyes blazing with anger. “You don’t have to love me, but you cannot love him. You can never love anyone else.”

The blood in Erik’s mouth starts to run down his cheek. He struggles to breathe. Sebastian looks at him with cold eyes and Erik wonders why he ever entertained this man who will never let him go. He was young, naive, caught up in the cause and didn’t know any better.

He wants to ask Sebastian to give him a grave. Give him a place where Charles can lay flowers for him, flowers from their meadow, but he doesn’t. He will ask nothing of this man who would rather see him die than be happy with another.

“I knew you would never let me go,” Erik says, giving Sebastian a small smile.

Sebastian walks slowly up to Erik and stands before him.

“Then why did you go, Erik? Why did you leave me when you knew I would find you and kill you?”

“Because I need to be free,” Erik says softly.

All his life he’d been chained to something or someone. His mother, the cause, Sebastian. He knew Sebastian would follow him. He knew he would never let him go, but he needed to follow Charles anyway. He needed to do something for himself for once.

Erik can no longer stand. He sinks to the ground just as Sebastian raises his face to the sky and lets out a yell of anguish. No one has won here. No one.

_Mother. I will see you. Soon._

 

**X**

 

Charles cannot leave Erik. He cannot ride away. He will return, go back and they will face whatever they need to face together. He pulls the reins of his horse hard and she skids to a halt. He turns her around and they ride back toward the compound, back towards Erik. He breaks out of the trees into a meadow he had crossed earlier when he sees him.

Erik. He’s sprawled on the ground like a broken doll. Charles pulls his reins hard and jumps off his horse, running towards where Erik is lying. As he runs he sees Shaw come flying at him, and he realizes that the man would would not let Erik go is the same man who sent Charles on this journey, who told him to deceive Erik. Shaw throws a ball of energy at Charles, who stumbles back at its force.

“You’re part of House of M.” Charles gasps, holding his chest and breathing hard. “You’re the one who loves Erik.”

“You didn’t listen,” Shaw spits at him, “I told you it’s just a game and you didn’t listen.”

“He’s hurt,” Charles says, astounded at Shaw’s logic, “you love him and you hurt him.”

“If it hadn’t have been for you, he would still be mine,” Shaw says, walking towards where Charles stands. “He betrayed me because of you, so now you must die.”

Shaw puts his hands out and Charles sees them start to vibrate, blurring, and then another blast of energy is sent his way, throwing him backwards and he hits the ground hard. His right side hurts and he probably cracked some ribs. He tries to think, gathering his thoughts, tries to figure out a way to fight back. He slowly reaches out with his mind, pushing it towards Shaw and he watches as Shaw grabs his head with both his hands and sinks to the ground, screaming. Charles struggles to his feet and pulls his sword from his belt then starts running towards Shaw, determined to run him through. Shaw recovers before Charles can reach him and he’s met with another energy blast that sends him reeling once again.

Charles is still spinning from the pain when he sees movement from the corner of his eye. He turns his head and watches as Erik staggers to his feet, his hand clutching his chest where a dagger is embedded.

“Sebastian,” Erik says, his eyes glittering as he looks at Charles, “let him go.”

Shaw looks at Charles then at Erik.

“No,” Shaw says.

“If you kill him,” Erik gasps, “I will kill you with this dagger.”

“No!” Charles yells. He throws his sword down and staggers towards Erik. “Erik, no. If you take that out, you will die.”

Erik looks over at Charles. He smiles a small smile and in that moment Charles sees everything they’ve shared, and his chest clenches because they simply do not have enough time together.

“I’m already dead, my love.”

“No,” Charles gasps, “please no.”

“Yes,” Shaw says. And at that moment he sends a burst of energy towards Charles. Erik pulls the dagger from his chest and throws it towards Shaw, who is so focused on Charles that he cannot block Erik’s attack. Erik controls the metal, sending it singing through the air and plunging it into Shaw’s heart, a strike that is strong and deep and meant to kill.

The energy blast reaches Charles and he’s throw backwards again, and it feels like every bone in his body is breaking under the force of the attack. He finds himself on the ground and he rolls over, watching as Erik sinks slowly to the ground.

“You shouldn’t have come back,” Erik gasps as Charles crawls to his side. He smiles and Charles cradles him in his arms.

“I came back for you, my love,” Charles whispers. Erik’s eyes flutter shut and Charles pulls him closer, tears falling onto Erik’s face. “I will always come back for you.”

Charles holds Erik as the snow continues to fall, now heavier. It’s cold but he feels nothing. Every part of him is numb. Erik is gone, and with him everything. He holds him and tells him all he ever wanted to tell him, whispering his hopes and dreams into his ear, knowing that his words are worth nothing.

 

**XI**

 

Sebastian stumbles across the meadow. In the end, it was a game. A game where the prize was the love of another. He played the game and he has lost. Everything.

 

**XII**

 

In the end it's Emma who helps Charles take Erik home. Not back to House of M or the encampment. She helps Charles take him back to the flowers. It takes a few days of travel but they get him there and that is where they bury him, on the edge of the meadow, giving Erik the grave his mother was denied.

Charles does not return to Paradise, or Westchester. He does not return to House of M. He stays with Erik. He will stay with Erik until the end of his days.

"He was a good person," Emma says as they stare down at the grave where Erik's body lies. "One of the best I've ever known." Charles has gathered flowers from the field to place on Erik's grave, and he will do that every day, telling Erik every day that he misses him, that he loves him. He will weep countless times over everything they have lost and he will wake from nightmares begging to have just a little of it back.

"So was his mother," Emma says, and although Charles barely knows Emma, they share a deep sorrow, and it calls for a strange moment of truth. Emma turns to look at Charles and he wonders again how she got the scar that breaks up her face.

"She regretted it, you know," Emma says softly. "She would never tell our people this, but she told me. She hated that she had destroyed so much, but more than anything that she had given Erik a life where they had to run and hide constantly."

"I know," Charles says quietly.

"How?" Emma asks.

"Erik. She was part of him and she can't be evil if she made someone like him."

“You can come with us,” Emma says, “there is so much of their work to be done. Someday our world will be one where people can live as themselves, without suppression chips or the camps. Without dying.”

Charles thinks about House of M. Everything was so clear when he started this journey and now he sees things as more complicated. Still, it’s a war and as Erik said, in war there are casualties, and Charles doesn’t think he can live with that. Not now. Not with the loss that weighs on his soul.

“No,” Charles says quietly. “My place is here. With him.”

“For now,” Emma says.

“Forever, Emma.” Charles says, staring down at where Erik is buried. The rain drizzles down softly from the dark bleak sky and Emma shivers a little, wrapping her long cape tighter around her. It hasn't snowed again. Not since the day Erik died. Charles clutches the flowers tightly in his hand, crushing their delicate stems, but in a miracle of survival, there are more, and there always will be. He bends down and places them on the grave, and in his head he tells Erik that their love was brief but true and pure, and he is in his heart forever. Every day. He turns to Emma, eyes glittering with tears and he opens his mouth to again make the vow that Erik will never hear.

“Forever.”

**~fin~**

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on the movie [House of Flying Daggers](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/House_of_Flying_Daggers).


End file.
